The Garden That Wasn't
by Surrender
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale have barely had time to relax and enjoy their success in preventing the Apocalypse when another pressing matter makes itself known. The Garden of Eden has returned to Earth, but not in the form they expected.  Now edited.
1. Another Situation

All right, this is my first _Good Omens_ fic-I love the book fiercely, and I'm just hoping the story shows it.

Just to be clear, this story won't be AxOC _or _CxOC, as I frankly can't abide the concept.

**Disclaimer**- all credit for the characters of Crowley and Aziraphale go to the lords Pratchett and Gaiman.

**A/N**: For anyone reading this for the first time, I hope you enjoy! For anyone who has already read it, this has been very heavily edited as of 25th of May 2010, so you may wish to re-read. Also enjoy. :D

* * *

Speaking with the Metatron—rather, being spoken at by the Metatron whilst trying desperately to sink into the carpet—always left Aziraphale feeling a little torn. Mostly this was due to the fact that, whenever he was told something of particular importance or significance—or, honestly, just something he found especially interesting—he got the terrible urge to tell Crowley about it. And somewhere in his angelic core he couldn't help but feel that this was not an admirable trait to have. In fact, in this present circumstance specifically, all the basic logic at Aziraphale's command insisted quite firmly that telling Crowley would be a Bad Idea, both words capitalized in his mind like a passive-aggressive red flag from his subconscious. He couldn't honestly disagree. It wasn't as though this was comparable to the Apocalypse-that-almost-was-but-in-reality-probably-wasn't-all-that-likely-anyway, since Crowley had at least already been aware that there was _something _going on then. If what Aziraphale had been told was accurate, there was very little chance that Crowley had even the slightest inkling of what was going on this time.

To be honest, the whole thing still sort of puzzled _him. _

It would be very nice if he had somebody with whom to talk it over, somebody to help him work things out. It helped him to think aloud.

Only he really _oughtn't _tell Crowley.

He just really wanted to.

Crowley's phone rang sixteen times before he answered—Aziraphale counted every ring. When at last he picked up, the demon sounded testy, which wasn't all that unusual, as his previously unlisted number had somehow recently become available to telephone salespeople.

"Hallo?"

"Crowley, old boy!" Aziraphale's voice was weak. "You're well, I hope?" He didn't wait for Crowley's answer, though if he had, it would have been something along the lines of, "Same as I was when I saw you _yesterday. _What is this about?"

"Lovely," said Aziraphale absently. "Anyway, I was…well, it's the funniest thing, you know…"

"Hilarious," agreed Crowley dryly. "My sides are splitting. What is this about?"

"You sound cross," noted Aziraphale. "I haven't interrupted anything, have I? I'm terribly sorry if I have."

Crowley grunted."Just watering the plants."

"Ah. Poor things. Which one was it this time?"

"Prayer plant, actually," said Crowley. "It's too bad; I had rather high hopes for it."

"Haha, praying for it, were you?" said Aziraphale, sounding sick.

If it were possible to hear someone narrow their eyes, Aziraphale would've heard Crowley do it now.

"You're nervous. What's going on?" Ever since the not-quite-Armageddon, Crowley had developed a certain, arguably necessary measure of paranoia.

Aziraphale glanced sideways at a random spot of carpet, which was ridiculous, if one thought about it, because who was he trying to avoid eye contact with? He coughed.

"Aziraphale…"

"Could you perhaps come to the shop? I think this may be something I need to discuss with you in person."

"Yeah. Sure. On my way." The line went dead.

"Drive carefully," said Aziraphale despairingly to the lifeless receiver. He stood for a moment more with it pressed to his ear, then returned it to the cradle with a sigh. He supposed there was no reason to be frustrated, not really, but he was exhausted—still recovering from last Saturday that was almost the last Saturday, as it were—and he found that things got to him more easily these days. He pushed up his glasses to pinch the bridge of his nose. Swearing came a bit more easily to him now as well, he found. All this time on Earth was having an Influence on him.

Crowley pulled up in front of the store seven minutes later, indicating that he had traveled with a speed Aziraphale quailed to consider. The double lines at the curb pulled away almost familiarly for him like a red carpet in reverse. Aziraphale glanced out the front window worriedly. Despite the urgency in his tone during their telephone conversation of moments ago, Crowley wore a smooth, easy grin as he pushed open the previously locked door. Aziraphale was beginning to suspect that it was his default expression. Crowley, in reality, simply failed to see why Aziraphale should be so upset. What could he have to talk about that was worse than the end of the world? And they had handled that pretty well, if he did say so himself.

"Angel," he purred fondly, greeting Aziraphale with a salute.

"Crowley," replied Aziraphale. "I think...we may have a bit of a situation, as it were."

Crowley raised his eyebrows fluidly. "Another one?"

Aziraphale gestured toward the back room, and once the two of them were seated, he pressed his fingers into a steeple and said, "I think Heaven's been rather frazzled since the Great Plan failed to materialize." He looked meaningfully at Crowley. "You see, they, er…they seem to have misplaced Eden."

Crowley blinked. "Eden? As in, the Garden of? Exactly how does one misplace a garden?"

"Well," began Aziraphale.

"I mean—and do correct me if I'm wrong, here—I was under the mad impression that garden were big bloody plots of land with…shrubs and animals and other garden-like things. Apple trees."

Aziraphale waved vaguely. "That's the thing, dear boy. As I understand it, Eden _isn't _a garden, so to speak. It's…ah, well…"

"What?" said Crowley, curiosity and impatience mingling in his tone.

"Well it's a _she_, now," said Aziraphale.

"_What_?" repeated Crowley.

Aziraphale shrugged, laughed half-heartedly. "I'm honestly not all that clear on the logistics of it myself. It was brought to my attention earlier today by the Metatron, and you know how he is about explaining things. Apparently, after you and I were dismissed from Eden, it sat all but abandoned for years until settlements of humans started to get too close to the borders. At that point, I suppose the Higher Ups were forced to close up shop and take it back into Heaven." He stopped and looked to Crowley with an expression akin to embarrassment.

"Just like that?" Crowley tilted his head to make sure he had heard the angel correctly. His mouth failed to close completely.

Aziraphale shrugged again. "That's what I've been told. I'm probably missing details; the Metatron seemed in a hurry. Basically, the point is the Garden's been up in Heaven since then, but now, somehow, it's been misplaced on Earth, and no one can seem to find it. Her, I should say."

"Her," agreed Crowley thoughtfully. "How'd it end up a girl, do you think?"

"I can't say. There are theories, of course, but in the end it all boils down to ineffability. He works in mysterious ways, you know. I wouldn't be surprised if He simply decided to return the Garden to Earth, now that it's certain to be around a while longer. In that case it would only be logical to send it as a person. It's much more subtle, one feels."

Crowley snorted. "And? Since when have your people ever been subtle? I thought you lot were all for stigmata and visions of flaming virgins and all that flashy nonsense."

"Flaming virgins?" echoed Aziraphale faintly. "Oh, dear. I can't say I know where you got that from, but I guess I understand your meaning. I'd say it's a sign of the changing times. Heaven is starting to catch up. Besides," he added, sounding insulted. "you know most of those had nothing to do with us, anyway."

Crowley nodded, waving a dismissive hand in Aziraphale's direction. "Right, right. Now what exactly are we supposed to do about this?"

"Technically, _we _aren't supposed to do anything about it," said Aziraphale."_You _aren't even supposed to know about it."

"What are you supposed to do about it, then?"

"I…I'm supposed to find her," said Aziraphale. "It's all a part of the ineffable plan, of course, but there have been a few issues since the Garden hit terra firma, and it would be much easier to smooth things over if we could just keep track of her."

"Issues?" asked Crowley.

"Yes. I'm told some of your people have already been dispatched to find her, for one thing."

"Huh," said Crowley. "Shouldn't be too surprised I didn't know about that, should I?" He probably wasn't in very high favor in a certain, uncomfortably warm underworld at the moment, but the jury was still out about worried he should be about this fact. Well, of course, he ought to be worried—he certainly didn't want the whole of Hell angry with him, but Crowley was finding it difficult to work up the motivation to worm his way back into anyone's bad graces.

Aziraphale fidgeted with his cuffs. The motion caught Crowley's attention, and he cleared his throat.

"D'you have any idea where it—_she _is, then?"

"Not exactly," admitted Aziraphale. "But I figured…together…it'd be just like old times, wouldn't it? Only not that old, I mean, we have older times…"

"Hold right on there, you," said Crowley, jabbing a finger pointedly. "Say I agree to help you. What exactly is in this for me?"

Aziraphale's smile was slow and smug in a way that indicated he'd anticipated Crowley's question. "If we find her together," he said reasonably. "I'll be able to tell Heaven that I've got her under my protective care, and _you'll _technically have her as well, so…"

Crowley smiled like a snake. "You know, Aziraphale, sometimes I swear you almost make sense."

Aziraphale's smile faltered slightly. "I think I should be worried about that," he said.

"Don't be. It doesn't happen very often."

* * *

Questions? Comments? Compliments? Complaints? Drop me a line and let me know!


	2. The Girl Eden

Wow, chapter two already. I'm amazed at how easily this is coming, though I probably just cursed myself to a month of grade-A writer's block for that comment. I'm actually rather pleased with this chapter, which is really rare for me with writing.

Prepare to be ASTOUNDED by my incredibly creative naming abilities.

**Disclaimer**- the characters of Crowley and Aziraphale belong to Mssrs. Pratchett and Gaiman. I wouldn't dare claim them as my own for fear that something incredibly nasty would happen to me as I slept. And then I'd be up all night trembling in fear and would consequently fall asleep on my keyboard. So, for the sake of chapter three consisting of more than drool and a series of ghnjmgftfghegr, I give credit where credit is due. And the babbling ends _now._

Also, I'd like to thank **Kestral **and** Que **for their kind and lovely reviews. This chapter's for you:D

* * *

Mrs. Gardiner found the girl in the flower bed, kneeling in the fresh mud, contentedly digging up her prize azaleas. Her pale, pointed face was streaked with brown, and there was a worrying intensity in her eyes that made Mrs. Gardiner a little wary of disturbing her. But she was just a child, however vicious she looked in her methodical destruction of the helpless flowers, and more pressing really was the fact that Mrs. Gardiner had no idea to whom the girl belonged.

She approached with caution. "Excuse me, sweetheart."

The girl looked up, and suddenly Mrs. Gardiner was overcome with all manner of soft, motherly, pleasant-smelling emotions that rather baffled her. She was a naturally kind woman, a widow, and the sort one always expected to become a mother, but one way or another had never really gotten around to having a family. She smiled. There was an overwhelming urge to _protect, _to preserve and cherish the muddy being before her who watched her with strange, old eyes.

The girl blinked.

"Sweetheart," said Mrs. Gardiner softly. "Where's your mummy?"

The girl stared back blankly, as though Mrs. Gardiner had asked her the gestation period of the Upright Prairie Coneflower—though perhaps not, as this was something she would have known quite well. There was also a somewhat indignant expression in her eyes. It was the look one might give a person who kept slipping foreign words into everyday conversation for no reason other than to show that they knew them.

Hesitantly, Mrs. Gardiner tried again. "All right, then. Where's your daddy? Your father?"

At this, the little girl's dirty face split into a crooked little grin that flowed into existence like a rocky brook. She pointed a grimy finger upwards, towards the sky. Mrs. Gardiner gasped.

"Oh, you poor dear!"

The girl looked as though this was news to her. She cocked her head slightly, like a curious cocker spaniel.

"Is your father in heaven, honey?" Mrs. Gardiner knelt next to the girl, ignoring the cold, wet feeling that seeped in at her knees, and placed a comforting hand around her thin shoulders when she nodded. "Is that where your mother is, too?"

The girl merely shrugged, reaching out muddy fingers to touch Mrs. Gardiner's blouse as though she had never seen one, before. Mrs. Gardiner moved to take her hand, and the girl jerked back, startled, propelling herself away with big, worried eyes.

The poor thing, thought Mrs. Gardiner. She must be an orphan, couldn't be older than five. How she had ended up in Mrs. Gardiner's garden was a mystery, but that could be dealt with later.

Mrs. Gardiner held out a careful hand. "Why don't you come with me, sweetie. Let's get you cleaned up. Are you hungry?"

The girl inspected the proffered hand as though it might bite her. She leaned forward, sniffed it, glanced up quickly at Mrs. Gardiner, then supplied her own chubby child's hand in return. Mrs. Gardiner was thrilled. She knew she ought to phone the police about the girl. She probably had relatives looking for her. She might have been kidnapped or wandered away from home or any number of terrifying things. Surely Mrs. Gardiner should tell _someone. _But, for some reason, the thought of leaving her was unbearable. It would feel like abandoning her, like cutting something warm and vital out of herself and leaving it naked to the elements. And, though she didn't know why, Mrs. Gardiner felt as though she had been searching for this girl for a very long time, as though she'd lost her long ago, and she certainly wasn't going to give her up now.

"Do you have a name, love?" she asked pleasantly, toting the girl towards the house.

"Yes," said the girl, and Mrs. Gardiner startled. She had begun to suspect the girl couldn't talk at all, but her voice was strong and clear, though careful in the way of someone learning the pronunciations of a particularly tricky new language. "Eden."

It took Mrs. Gardiner a moment to register the word. "Eden," she said, rolling the name around in her mouth lovingly. "Do you like flowers, Eden?"

"Oh, yes," breathed Eden. "Are those flowers yours?" She indicated the crumpled azaleas.

"They were," said Mrs. Gardiner glumly.

"Why aren't they yours anymore? Don't you want them?"

"Well they're dead, dear."

Eden smiled in a way that scrunched up her nose like a walnut. "No, they aren't," she said. "I was moving them to a better spot. They're okay. But if you don't want them can they be mine?" She asked this last bit very quickly, as though she were afraid Mrs. Gardiner would snatch the flowers away from her if she didn't act swiftly enough.

"Of course," said Mrs. Gardiner. "In fact, I could use some help with all of my flowers. Would you like to be my official helper?"

"Could I?" asked Eden. "Gosh." She looked up at Mrs. Gardiner with wonder and gratefulness that bordered on reverence.

Mrs. Gardiner smiled reflexively. She led Eden inside, already planning the day ahead; shopping for little girl clothes, for toys, for soft pink sheets and curtains to fix up the guest bedroom, for flower seeds and a pair of gardening gloves small enough for Eden's tiny hands.

Eden Gardiner.

It had such a nice ring to it.

…

"So how do you suggest we start?" Crowley leaned forward across the table, crossing his arms in front of him.

Aziraphale shrugged. "I'm not certain. It's supposed to be within my abilities to locate her, so she wouldn't be hidden from us the way Adam was."

"That doesn't help us find her," Crowley pointed out. "She could be _anywhere._"

"Fair enough," said Aziraphale. He sighed, staring distractedly at Crowley's elbows, which were balanced carefully on the surface of the table. "That's bad manners, dear," he said.

"What? Oh, really, angel." Crowley made a sort of _hmph _noise and rearranged his arms sullenly.

Aziraphale poked at his sushi with a distant lack of interest. "You don't…maybe…do you think perhaps, if we were close enough, do you think perhaps we could _feel _her?"

Crowley's eyebrows went towards his hairline. "_Feel _her?"

"You know what I mean," said Aziraphale sharply, blushing despite himself. He frowned. "Sense her." The annoyance in his face spread into a downcast quirk of his mouth. "It does sound ridiculous, doesn't it? I really hadn't expected to be called upon to do this sort of thing, again. Especially not so soon."

Crowley appeared to consider this for a moment. "It doesn't sound _ridiculous, _per se," he said with grudging solace, adding, "Though it doesn't sound very likely, either," and when Aziraphale smiled up at him gratefully from between his arms, "Elbows off the table, you. S'bad manners."

Aziraphale sat up straighter and withdrew his elbows.

"Is there anything about her in any of your books?" Crowley mused, inspecting a tuna roll apprehensively. That would make sense, wouldn't it? When people wanted to know things, they looked it up in a book. Well, recently the more often looked it up on the internet, but Crowley had a strong suspicion there would be little helpful information squirreled away in the tangled mass of sites. Besides, he'd been "surfing," as it was called, and some of the stuff he'd found was downright frightening even by his standards. He made a mental note to persuade Aziraphale to try it sometime.

Aziraphale thought for a moment. "I can't say, I'm afraid."

"We could check," suggested Crowley. At the horrified expression Aziraphale tried to hide, he added, "I won't touch any of them, I promise."

"You promise?" Aziraphale looked wary.

"Demon of my word," Crowley reminded him. "Besides, research isn't really my scene. I'm more of the patiently-waiting-for-news-while-off-doing-more-exciting-things sort, myself."

Aziraphale nodded. "It couldn't hurt," he conceded. "Why didn't I think of that, I wonder?"

Crowley popped a sliver of pink sashimi into his mouth. "Do we have a plan, then?"

"We have a plan. I don't know how much it will yield," said Aziraphale. "but one has to start somewhere."

"Then I officially declare the business portion of this meeting over," said Crowley, pounding the bottle of soy sauce against the table like a gavel. "And for our next action, I propose we get something to drink."

Aziraphale laughed. "I'll second that motion," he said fondly. "Merely for the sake of formality, of course."

The demon turned to wave down a server, and Aziraphale leaned forward to help himself to a piece of Crowley's sushi while he was distracted. It was just as well—Crowley had put far too much wasabi on that piece, anyway. He allowed himself a small smile as Aziraphale's eyes began to tear.

"Something wrong?"

"You're _evil,_" said Aziraphale.

"I'm not the one stealing other people's food," Crowley pointed out casually. "Looks like someone's forgotten their commandments."

Smiling, he handed Aziraphale his glass of water, and the angel took it gratefully, if a little resentfully. Water was never really sufficiently soothing for the more persistently spicy things in the world, as Aziraphale had learned through years of stealing Crowley's food and the brief stint of time he'd spent in India—it had only been half a century, at the most, but Aziraphale wasn't convinced anything short of a miracle would've set his digestive tract back to normal. This time, however, the burn vanished the moment the liquid hit his tongue. Nothing short of a miracle. Aziraphale looked at his companion knowingly. Crowley looked away.

"You reckon there's actually a mention of the Garden's whereabouts in one of your books?"

Aziraphale allowed the topic change. "There may be," he said.

There was, in fact, a book that mentioned Eden. It mentioned exactly where she could be found, and what would happen once she was found, and the exact number of times she would put a stone through the window of her neighbor's massive SUV in retaliation for tire tracks left in her tulip bed. It had been delivered to Jasmine Cottage in Lower Tadfield the previous Sunday. It had been burned.

That had also been predicted.

…

The sky was achingly blue. Eden noticed that about the colder months; they tended to clear out the sky like freezing it over. It was beautiful. Perfect. Sacred.

She tucked her hands behind her head. The grass prickled against the backs of her hands. It mystified most of the neighbors how the Gardiner lawn stayed green all year round, though Eden simply concluded that the only reason anybody's lawn died when it got too cold—or too hot, for that matter—was because they got too lazy to stop it.

The crocuses were bright along the fence; true autumn-blooming crocuses in lavender and mauve, and above her, the towering oak was just starting to catch fire. The edges of the broad green leaves were curling up defensively against the coming winter chill, and splotches of crimson, gold, and bronze stained their faces like the canvas of a careless artist. Eden watched a leaf tumble from its perch and spiral to the ground. It was breathtaking to her; the grand, complex cycle of life and love and death condensed into the story of one frail peeling of nature. We come forth into this life, fresh and green; we face down the wind, and it takes its toll; we succumb to the cold and we fall. Some fall earlier than others, some brave it long into the freeze. It struck Eden as remarkably sad, and for a moment she saw the tree above her glow with life, the leaves plumping out like green balloons. She heard the rush of sap in the thick wooden arteries beneath rough flaky skin.

Then she blinked, and it was over.

Sighing, Eden rolled over onto her stomach and pressed her cheek against the cold grass. This always happened to her on her birthday—she felt this sudden panic, a dread of aging she couldn't explain. Every year, she would come out into the garden and lay down in the shade of the oak that had been here before even her mother had been a possibility. It thrilled her to be in the middle of this, the heartbeat of the world as felt by one girl through a fenced-off rectangle of dirt. It made her feel as though she were a part of something, of everything, the ancient, endless circle of the earth, and for some reason this soothed her irrational horror of time's progress. There was _so much _time, past, present, and future, and so much to do with it. It marched on unceasingly, but rather than be dragged along by it, she could learn to march at its side and reap its wonders. The thought was enough to peel her off the ground and get her back inside. To convince her to keep going, at least for one more year, until she once more returned to the embrace of the grass, of the still, silent air and the chill of the oak tree's sprawling shadow.

The first time Eden had done this, drawn inexorably to the garden on her seventh birthday, her mother had tried to coax her back inside and, when that failed to produce the desired result, to drag her in. Eden had fought viciously, screaming and biting and growling like a rabid animal. Then it had begun to pour out of nowhere, thick sheets of silver rain reducing visibility to nearly nothing, and a gust of wind tipped the telephone pole in front of their house crashing and crackling into the street. That had surprised her mother, and Eden took advantage of the moment to escape her grip. She fled to the gap behind the shed and the fence where her mother couldn't fit and spent the next three hours curled up on a pile of sodden leaves. When she had finally consented to come out, she fell into a fever-addled sleep that lasted on-and-off for near to a month.

Her mother stopped interfering after that.

Eden and her mother had enjoyed a relationship of mutual absolute, unconditional adoration since their first meeting, but Mrs. Gardiner had long since accepted that her adopted daughter would always remain mostly a mystery to her in some respects. She was a bright girl, but her grades were never exceptional, since her attention during classes was constantly drawn to the windows and her hours after school dedicated the flower beds of vegetable garden before the matter of homework was even granted a thought. She wrote impassioned speeches on the importance of protecting the environment that sent her classmates into cheers, but turned down offers to join the debate team without exception. She painted landscapes that would've made Monet sick with love, but only made her arts teacher sick with her decisive lack of effort when it came to portraits or the occasional still life. Every study of fruit turned into sour scribbles when she reached the apple, though none of the faculty was ever able to figure out the reason for this.

Despite her sorted eccentricities, Eden had a fair amount of close friends. She was likeable and kind, and had even experimented with dating, though more out of sheer curiosity than anything else. But in the end, she preferred her plants, her mother and Nimbus, the cross-eyed kitten her mother had noticed loitering persistently around the neighborhood as if with a purpose and finally brought home for Eden's fourteenth birthday. Nimbus was a sweet, unbearably needy thing, with paws that were a little too big for him. Mrs. Gardiner was violently allergic to him, and he was undissuadably affectionate towards her. He had a particular fondness for ankles and a way of meowling for attention that always brought Eden running to deliver it. They had an odd relationship, girl and cat. Sometimes, Mrs. Gardiner would swear they could read one another's minds. Since the day he'd been brought home, Nimbus had slept curled up near Eden's head, purring like a motor. Eden would risk life and limb to protect Nimbus from so much as a scratch—the cat, in return, had been the subject of a particularly stressful visit to the veterinarian after bravely, if somewhat needlessly, defending Eden from the attentions of the neighbor's Doberman.

So when Nimbus roused around two a.m. the morning after Eden's eighteenth birthday, she felt it, and knew something was wrong.

It didn't take her long, upon opening her eyes, to notice there were two figures standing at the foot of her bed. She let out a sleep-garbled squawk of alarm and proceeded to tumble off the bed. A muffled groan of pain was heard from out of sight.

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale softly. "I think we've frightened her."

* * *

**A/N:** Just because I had a friend who confused about a couple things:

Wasabi is a kind of Japanese horseradish that you put on sushi that is _extremely _spicy. And resembles toxic green Play-Doh.

Nimbus, religiously speaking, refers to the halo painted around the heads of Jesus and saints in paintings and stained glass and the like. It indicates someone who is worthy of reverence.

If you have any questions, feel free to ask!


	3. Signs of Life

Chapter Three already-I'm amazed! I tihnk this is the most quickly I've ever updated a story in the history of ever. And I also really like it, so the firsts keep piling up!

**Disclaimer-**The character of Airaphale and Crowley belong to Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman, as does the book _Good Omens._I only borrow them for a little bit at a time, and I give them back in almost the same condition!

Thanks **so much** to **Que**, my dear repeat reviewer! I'm glad you like Eden-I'm trying incredibly hard to keep her out of the realm of MSdom, as I think Crowley and Aziraphale deserve better than that.

Also, thanks to **MadMaiden **for you kind words. I hope you enjoy chapter three!

As always, feel free to ask me questions about anything that confuses you.

Thank you again!

* * *

14 October; 1 Week Before Eden's Eighteenth Birthday

"That was a great bleeding waste of time," said Crowley angrily as started the Bentley. "Or should I say _another _great bleeding waste of time."

Aziraphale looked at him with somewhat affected resentment. He understood Crowley's frustration, to be certain, but he also knew that it would make things much easier for the two of them if the demon kept it to himself. Aziraphale did, and he felt he was much more pleasant to be around for it.

"Oh, I don't know about that," he said, trying to keep his voice light. "Every place she isn't brings us one step closer to where she is."

It had been almost a year since Aziraphale completed the exhaustive inspection of his entire collection—an arduous process that had been stilted on several occasions; Aziraphale blamed Crowley completely—that left him with, more or less, absolutely nothing towards a clue to the Garden's location. Indeed, every book combined lacked any such lead. The only real mentions of the Garden in his library had been of the Paradise Aziraphale had once guarded, and most of those came in the form of poetry and theological references to the dangers of sin. Both were equally difficult to derive any real meaning from, and spectacularly unhelpful. The nearest to a clue Aziraphale had come across came in the form of a scrap of paper that fluttered out of the bookshelf as if without source—it wasn't so strange, really, since Aziraphale was constantly being surprised by his books ever since Adam had been at them—coated with dust but otherwise relatively new-looking. It was decorated with neat, unremarkable, entirely foreign handwriting. Across the top, the word _Translation _had been underlined carelessly, and underneath read _and when these things have and have not been, and the Armageddon has and has not been, then the forces of Heaven and Hell shall ride together and the Garden shall be found within. _This sounded suspiciously like more "metaphorical poetic nonsense" to Crowley, and though Aziraphale had put up a front of offended outrage, he had been tired and secretly inclined to agree.

The fact that his collection, his material pride and joy, had yielded so _little _gave Aziraphale a distinct sense of failure. But he tried to remain optimistic. Crowley wasn't necessarily opposed to optimism—not completely—it was just Aziraphale's concept of optimism that he disliked, as it involved getting Crowley to drive around to various famous English parks and gardens to look for signs of the Garden's presence. They were just now returning from some kind of shrubbery sculpture show that had involved…well, a lot of really boring shrubbery sculptures. Crowley had kept himself amused well enough, though by the third time it happened, he was no longer able to convince Aziraphale that it was pure coincidence if a sculpture's head happened to fall off as he went by.

Aziraphale had not noticed, however, when Crowley started adding bits.

"What are we looking for, exactly?" Crowley looked sideways at the angel in the passenger seat. "I mean, what sorts of signs am I supposed to be seeing, here?"

Aziraphale paused to consider this. "Signs of life, I suppose," he decided finally. "The miraculous re-appearance of a plant species previously thought extinct. The blooming of a flower that hasn't shown traces of activity for years. Really large vegetables." He shrugged. "Anything is possible."

Crowley frowned. "Stuff like that, though…it happens all the time, though, doesn't it? Naturally, I mean."

"I suppose," allowed Aziraphale. "But that's the wonderful part of it, you see. The Garden is natural. It—she—is the very essence of nature by her character. She won't bend the world out of shape with her presence like Adam did. She'll make it…more itself."

Crowley went "huh."

"That's sort of pointless," he said.

"It's ineffable," Aziraphale corrected him.

They drove for a moment in silence.

"Things will inevitably work out, you'll see." Aziraphale smiled tiredly as he gazed out the tinted window of the Bentley. "That's ineffability at work for you."

Crowley snorted. "Right, right, ineffable. You throw that word around often enough."

He eased his foot forward on the gas pedal, pressing the car over the speed limit as he approached an intersection. He sped through cleanly, slipping just past a small blue car on his left by a matter of centimeters Aziraphale wasn't certain actually existed. No one honked their horn.

"You've run a red light," said Aziraphale. He sounded as though it didn't really matter to him, but he felt it was the sort of thing he ought to object to.

"Have I?" said Crowley, the side of his mouth curving up slyly. He gunned through another red light.

Aziraphale began to object, but stopped short as he was hit with a strange sensation like having a fishing hook snagged suddenly on his heart. As the Bentley zoomed forward, the hook seemed to jerk back as though it were attached to some cosmic fishing line. Another sharp tug, and Aziraphale let out a cry of startled pain.

"I say, dear boy…could you stop? I feel a little…oh, dear…" He shut his mouth and swallowed hard, the color draining form his face.

Crowley ignored him. The pain grew worse and worse. Aziraphale hunched in on himself, both hands pressed against his chest as though he feared something was about to be ripped out of him, his vision prickling with motes of light around the edges. Crowley's mouth grew thinner and thinner until it was nothing more than a pale razor-slash in his face, his grip on the wheel tightening until his knuckles went white. He looked like a get-away driver determined to outrun the squadron of wailing police cars at his tail while his accomplice bled out next to him.

Finally, Aziraphale flung out an arm to catch at Crowley's sleeve.

"For Heaven's sake, Crowley, stop the blasted car!" His voice was weak, but sharp.

Crowley jammed the break down hard. Aziraphale braced himself against the dashboard to avoid being tossed out the windscreen. The pain eased, and he pressed a hand to his chest.

"Did you feel that?"

"I think so," said Crowley grimly. He glanced sideways at Aziraphale. "Sharp pain in the chest?"

Aziraphale nodded.

"Oh good." Crowley gave a sigh of relief and relaxed against his seat. "I was afraid it was some kind of sign from Down There."

"It couldn't have been," said Aziraphale without much conviction. He looked at Crowley hopefully.

"Doubt it," said Crowley. "We aren't exactly receiving the same channels, here, are we."

"No, I imagine not," replied Aziraphale idly. The pain in his chest was retreating, sliding back like a cloth being pulled from a table, revealing a strong, light warmth that floated lazily somewhere near his liver. There was something wonderfully _familiar _to it. It was like coming home after a long, often frustrating business trip to a three-course meal, a backrub, and a warm bed. Aziraphale's head lolled to one side. He sighed in delight.

Crowley looked unsettled.

…

Eden rapped her knuckles against the steering wheel, humming rather tunelessly along with the heavily-synthesized pop song—the word "song" here being used as a highly subjective term—playing on the station she was only half-listening to.

She was late for school.

…

"That's…uncomfortable," said Crowley.

"Are you getting that sense, too?" asked Aziraphale excitedly, leaning sideways against the window with heavy eyes and a lazy smile that bordered on the obscene. He made a gesture, and it looked as though he were moving through syrup. "It's like what I was talking about before. You know. The sort of _good _feeling all over. Are you feeling it?"

"Er," said Crowley. He was, in fact, and seemed unsure of how to feel about the matter.

Aziraphale's smile widened. "Perhaps we aren't receiving such different channels after all, hm?"

"Yeah," said Crowley slowly. What he was sensing, for lack of a better word…well it wasn't unfamiliar, but it certainly wasn't anything he'd expected to experience again.

Aziraphale was obviously following a similar train of thought, and a thrill went through him as he came to the conclusion, shaking him out of his stupor like a slap to the face. He grabbed Crowley's arm.

"It's her! Crowley, it the Garden!"

So it was. Crowley recognized the feeling now. It was the same, peaceful, welcoming feeling he'd known back in the Day, when he still went by Crawly. The absolute certainty of Home. Earth was fascinating and wonderful and flawed, but Crowley had never found another place with the same atmosphere of unconditional, universal inclusion. The feeling had always puzzled him, considering what he had been sent into the Garden to do.

A part of him, a part of which Crowley had always firmly disapproved, had always acknowledged that he missed the Garden. Crowley usually made a point of ignoring that part. He had, however, allowed it to but houseplants.

"Do you think that means she's near, then?" Aziraphale's voice was like a toddler on Christmas Eve.

"Can't say. You reckon you'd know her if you saw her?" Crowley tried to sound loftily amused, but a hopeful curiosity slithered into the question.

"I do like to think so," said Aziraphale. He settled back in his seat, but continued to glance about furtively. "What do you suppose she's like?"

"Leafy?" offered Crowley.

Aziraphale ignored him, turning away to stare out the window as he tried to transfer the attributes of the Garden into a human girl.

"She'll be beautiful, in all likelihood," he said finally. "And good."

Crowley groaned, but Aziraphale continued on, unfazed.

"And kind and compassionate and patient and understanding and…"

…

Eden swore loudly and leaned into the horn. Bugger all, why did everyone in the bloody country have to forget how to drive _today_? She craned her neck to peer over the tops of the cars in front of her. What was causing all this traffic?

A quick glance at her stereo clock told Eden—rather too smugly for an inanimate object, she thought—that she was nearly half an hour late for class. Brilliant. She looked searchingly over the tops of the cars and sighed impatiently. Apparently some twit had meant to swerve off to the side of the road, but hadn't quite made it, and the back end of the car jutted out into the lane. Three cars in front of Eden nosed onto the shoulder and sped up to swerve around the shiny black roadblock. She pressed lightly on the gas pedal, inhaling deeply to calm herself down.

"Fiddlesticks," she muttered under her breath. She had been trying to stop swearing for a while, now. It was a nasty habit. Her mum didn't like it, and it always made Eden feel guilty, like she ought to apologize to someone every time a dirty word slipped out.

The car—she saw now that it was an antique, though she certainly couldn't place the model—was parked right in front of the street she meant to turn onto, casually as if it were in a carpark. She jabbed at the horn, trying rather ridiculously to do it in as polite a manner as possible.

Crowley glared into the rear-view mirror.

"I think that driver would like us to move," noted Aziraphale.

Crowley ignored him. He made a complicated gesture over one shoulder.

Eden was taken aback. "Yeah, well, same to you," she muttered.

"Huh," said Crowley.

"What?"

"Didn't work."

"What didn't work?" Aziraphale sounded nervous.

Crowley tried again.

"You must be joking," said Eden, exasperated. "You're the one parked in front of a street entrance!"

Crowley gestured a third time, more fiercely than before.

"Really, now," said Aziraphale.

Grumbling, Crowley shifted the Bentley into gear and eased off to the side of the street.

Eden gave a whoop of joy and stepped on the gas. She didn't even give the car a second glance as she raced by, mostly because it was a beautiful old machine, which probably meant that it got horrible gas mileage, and Eden always felt guilty for loving them anyway. She was opposed to cars on principle and generally bore for them the same faint resentment she felt towards their drivers, but she had to accede to their practicality, and certain older models always filled her with a shameful sense of appreciation.

As the other car passed them, Aziraphale felt the sensation of the fishing hook again, then a strange tremor as if the line were being stretched past its breaking point. What followed was a feeling not unlike a small explosion behind his heart as the line snapped. Then there was nothing.

"Ow," said Crowley, sounding surprised. "What just happened?"

"I'm…not sure," said Aziraphale.

Eden sneezed.

Crowley stared after the car, the gears in his mind practically audible as they churned though the thick mud of the sudden and familiar sensations.

"You don't think…?" he said softly.

Aziraphale turned to him. "Did you say something?"

Crowley frowned thoughtfully. "I have a theory I'd like to test," he said, his voice just this side of dangerous.

Eden glanced dismally at the clock again and suppressed a groan. She was very, very late, but for some reason, she decided to slow down.

Crowley shifted the Bentley into gear and started after her.

…

Half an hour and a bit of devious persuasion later, Crowley and Aziraphale sat in a small, crowded café examining a sheaf of papers. It was Eden's school directory—the two had caught up with her just as she'd been pulling into the lot. Crowley had hung back to avoid her seeing them. The Bentley was many things, but inconspicuous was not one of them. She'd be bound to recognize if she saw it again.

Aziraphale watched Crowley worriedly as the demon read the list of names.

"Are you sure that was the right thing to do?" he asked.

"No one was hurt," said Crowley reasonably. "We didn't steal anything or set anything on fire. A little deception never killed anyone," he added pointedly before Aziraphale could speak.

The angel raised an eyebrow. "Surely you aren't naïve enough to believe that."

Crowley shrugged and returned his attentions to the matter at hand. He shook his head. "It doesn't make any sense," he said, folding back the first page. "We've been looking for her for how long? Nearly twelve years? She shouldn't even be driving yet."

Aziraphale's mouth twisted downward. "I suppose we could have the wrong girl. Only I was _so sure _it was her," he said, echoing Crowley's thoughts.

"Well, it was just a theory," said Crowley. "This just means we're back to where we started." He continued to flip half-heartedly through the directory, glancing at the names with distant disinterest. Then he stopped. Blinked. Opened his mouth. Closed it.

"Er. Crowley?" said Aziraphale.

Crowley laughed. "There's no way," he said. "We would never be so lucky."

"What is it?" asked Aziraphale, reaching for the paper. Crowley handed it to him, pointing to a name near the top with another laugh.

"My word," breathed Aziraphale.

_Eden Gardiner, _read the paper.

"It's got her address on there and everything," Crowley informed him, indicating the information with his finger.

"That…is very lucky," agreed Aziraphale quietly.

"Luck has nothing to do with it," said Crowley, grinning madly. "That's ineffable."

…

22 October; 1:56 a.m.

The room was and wasn't what Aziraphale had been expecting. It was, to be frank, a mess, but cozy in the sense that it was packed tightly with things that were loved desperately by their owner. Two of the walls were hidden entirely by enormous, overflowing bookshelves that made Aziraphale's fingers itch to rifle through them. He managed to check himself.

Against a free wall, a desk was heaped unceremoniously with a collection of paper. Some of it was schoolwork, some of it poetry Eden had copied out of books she borrowed from the library, some of it sketches she'd done of Nimbus or stories she started with fervor and forgot after six pages. The door to the closet was opened slightly, and a pair of grubby tennis shoes stuck out. Paintings Eden had done for her classes were tacked to the walls along with framed flowers her mother had pressed for her. A small wooden night-table boasted an old, dusty alarm clock half-hidden behind yet another stack of books. Eden's mother had purchased a new alarm for Eden's birthday—it was supposed to play nature sounds, and Eden had plugged it in only to discover that most of the sounds involved water of some sort. They were more effective at sending her to the loo than at waking her up. Still, she had it plugged in on the floor near her bed, where it sat nestled in a nest of paper scraps and pencil stubs. Nimbus preferred it to the old alarm.

As Aziraphale carefully picked his way around the room, he noticed that every free surface was covered with potted plants. They weren't as big and lush as Crowley's—something the demon noted with a surge of pride—but they also weren't nearly as frightened, and there was a keen, otherworldly glossiness to them he put down to the poor light.

This was the Garden's room. They both knew it as emphatically as they had never known anything in their long, long lives.

This was the Garden's room, and the sleeping lump of covers snoring ever so slightly on the low bed was the Garden herself. Aziraphale felt light-headed with the emotion coursing through him.

There was also a cat. It was small, grey, and suspicious, examining the two intruders in his bedroom with apparent disdain. He lifted himself from his prone position at Eden's pillow and swaggered down the length of the bed, amber eyes never leaving them.

"Mrow?" he suggested politely.

"Er," said Aziraphale. He wasn't overly fond of cats. They weren't bad little creatures, but they did have a tendency to slink about covering everything with hairs that clung with remarkable tenacity. Usually one had to resort to a miracle to clear them all away.

The lump in the bed stirred.

"Nimbus?" said a muzzy, distinctly feminine voice. Eden sat up, rubbing sleep from her eyes. Nimbus darted to her side, meowing.

"What is it, Nims?" she asked, scratching him affectionately behind the ears.

Crowley cleared his throat.

Eden looked up. She then gave a frightened yelp and scrabbled for the edge of the bed, succeeding only in knocking herself to the floor. She groaned in pain.

"Oh dear," said Aziraphale softly. "I think we've frightened her. Are you quite all right, dear?"

The top of Eden's head appeared over the edge of her bed, eyes wide, mouth hanging open slightly.

"Fine," she snapped. "No thanks to you." Her eyes narrowed. "Are you burglars? Don't come any closer or I'll scream."

She hoisted herself onto the bed and watched Crowley and Aziraphale warily. She should probably scream anyway, she reasoned. Come to think of it, she should probably be frightened. Much more frightened than she was, at any rate.

"Please don't be alarmed," said Aziraphale wretchedly. "I assure you, the last thing we want is to harm you in any way."

Eden squinted at him in the poor light. If he was a burglar, he was a terribly strange one. They both were. And together they made an even stranger pair. One, she was pretty sure, had on a bow tie. The other had dark hair and wore sunglasses, which Eden found incredibly suspicious considering the hour. The newspapers tomorrow morning would probably give them some sort of clever nickname, as newspapers were wont to do with the more interesting criminals. They were both very familiar.

"Then what _do _you want?" she asked curiously, the fear almost completely gone from her. They really did remind her of someone, she realized, but she couldn't imagine she had ever seen them before. Or had she? Perhaps their pictures had already been in the newspaper or on the telly during a news broadcast. Only it almost felt as though she knew them…

Aziraphale looked to Crowley for help. Crowley shrugged.

"Just tell her the truth."

"Right." Aziraphale did not sound as though he thought Crowley was right. He cleared his throat and wet his lips nervously. "Well."

Eden looked at him, headed tilted slightly, anticipation in her face. The thing that baffled her most about them, she realized, was something that didn't seem to be coming from them at all. It seemed to be coming from somewhere inside _herself—_the ridiculous, simultaneous, contradictory urge to at once hide from them and throw her arms around them. She felt an odd, innate fondness for them both—someone less cynical would perhaps have called it love—and an unfathomable joy. It cried out with a voice that was and was not hers, at once ancient and young, "They've come back to you! They've come back to you!" despite the fact that Eden didn't know who they were or where they'd gone.

"Um," she said, more embarrassed than scared. It had begun to creep up on her that she ought to recognize them.

The one on the right, with the bow tie, came a little closer, and Eden drew away out of instinct. His face fell. Eden fought back the urge to reach out to him.

"Well?" she demanded weakly. Give them a few more minutes to explain themselves, then, unexplainable fondness or not, she was screaming, and she told them this.

The one closer to her blanched. "My name is Aziraphale," he supplied quickly. "This is my…ah…associate, Crowley, and we—"

Eden cut him off with a glare. "You must think I'm stupid," she said. She sounded like someone who had just been told a very tasteless joke and was not at all amused.

Crowley cocked an eyebrow.

Aziraphale blinked.

"I've read _Good Omens_," she informed them dourly. Despite her anger, she realized suddenly why they'd seemed so familiar. "You should be ashamed. I expect next you'll be giving me some story about Armageddon, and then next thing I know I'll be tied up a cellar somewhere." She edged away from the figures as much as she could without toppling off the bed again. The distance was far from satisfying. Nimbus settled between her and the strangers with all the ferocity he could muster, then set to purring.

Crowley frowned. "Good Omens?" he asked Aziraphale. It was a book, presumably, so the angel should know something about it.

Aziraphale sighed. "Of course," he said. "The book. The one by that Pratchett chap and…oh dear, what was it? Gaiman, I think. Come now, it wasn't all that long ago."

"You mean Terry and Neil?" Crowley's face lit with recognition. "Brilliant bastards. I remember that, now. Got it almost perfect, those two. Can't believe I'd forgotten it. You know, I found—"

Eden cleared her throat loudly. "I'm going to scream now," she said flatly.

"Please don't." Aziraphale looked helplessly at Crowley, who was studying Eden intensely. She looked back nervously.

"There's no way you can be who you say you are," she informed Crowley's sunglasses. "Crowley and Aziraphale are characters in a book. And anyway there's no such thing as demons." Her eyes flickered over to Aziraphale. "Or angels."

"Of all people, I expected _her _to be religious," said Crowley to Aziraphale, who merely spread his hands and shrugged.

"It's free will," he said.

"It's _ironic,_" said Crowley. He turned back to Eden, sliding his sunglasses down his nose to reveal the gold-colored eyes behind the dark lenses. "It's ironic," he repeated.

Eden shut her mouth with some effort. In the near-blackness his eyes looked like a snake's, slit-pupiled and bright. But there was no way he could be…there was no way.

"There's no such thing as demons," she insisted, voice weaker than she would have liked it to be. It felt like she was trying to convince herself more than anything. "I'm not a gullible child. If you're Crowley," she said challengingly, meeting the eyes of the demon before her. "then prove it."

Her desk promptly burst into flames.

Aziraphale yelped. The flames went out. Eden didn't speak. She stared, dumbfounded, at her desk, her lips moving faintly as though she was saying something no one else could hear. Slowly, she unfolded her legs and slid from the bed, brushing past Aziraphale as she sidled meekly up to the desk. There was a thin film of ash on the charred surface, and Eden ran a finger through it carefully. Beside her, Aziraphale made a _tsk _sound with his tongue.

"Terribly sorry about that."

Then the ash was gone, the only trace that there had ever been a fire at all clinging powdery and resilient to the tip of Eden's right index finger. Nimbus rubbed against her ankles with concern. She stooped down to pick him up, turning to Crowley and Aziraphale with new eyes. She wore an expression of awe and respect that had been previously absent.

"You're real," said Eden. "Huh. I, uh…_God._" She breathed it like a prayer. Her eyes went to Crowley, who'd put his sunglasses back on, then back to Aziraphale, who smiled at her.

"What are you _doing _here?" she said at last. She felt dizzy.

Crowley and Aziraphale did, too.

Aziraphale's expression grew sheepish, and he rubbed his hands together. "I suppose the time has come to answer a few questions, then, hasn't it?"

* * *

Questions? Comments? Just want to say hi? Drop me a line!


	4. NonFiction

Presenting Chapter Four! I'm sorry this one took a bit longer to churn out; I've been really bogged down with homework and lack of sleep. I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Crowley, Aziraphale, or any other character, idea, line, or philosophical concept realted to _Good Omens_

**oddsbobs**- You really are too, too kind. I'm so glad you're enjoying the story. You can't even imagine how much joy your review gave me.

**The Mad Maiden**-Thank you so much, and I hope you like Eden's reaction!

**EllipsisAddict-** Agh, I'm so embarrassed! I meant to explain that, and then I got distracted by Eden's desk fire and forgot. DX Personally, I don't think Crowley and Aziraphale would be terribly worried about poeple knowing they exist, because most people don't actually believe that they do. I have no doubt that they would've been incredibly nervous when the book first came out, but when they weren't smited (smote? smitten?) or burned alive after the first few months, and when they realized that they could still walk around without more than the occasional enthusiastic fan-er-person telling them they reminded her/him of Aziraphale and Crowley, they started to relax. I think it helps to know that your identity is safely regarded as fiction when you see stories about you before which writers have to admit that you belong to a set of incredibly talented authors. ( :

**Que-**I'm trying so hard not to make it sound rushed, which is resulting in increasing time between chapters, but I'm so happy that it shows! You are so kind; I'm keeping my fingers crossed that Eden stays far away from MSdom.

Please Enjoy!

* * *

Eden opened her mouth. She closed it. She had perched herself cheerfully on the foot of her bed, and now glanced distractedly to the side, fingers picking at the coverlet. Nimbus butted her arm with his head, and Eden's hand went to scritch him under the chin. She looked as though she hadn't yet decided whether she needed to throw up or cry. She opened her mouth, again, but all that came out was a sort of _hrgh. _She looked up at Aziraphale, a dictionary's worth of words glued stubbornly to the tip of her tongue.

Aziraphale, for his part, looked incredibly uncomfortable.

"I should have known that would sound strange," he admitted apologetically.

"Yes," said Eden, a little hysterically. She took a slow breath. Then, with the air of a small child attempting to learn advanced calculus from an infinitely patient professor of whom they are endlessly fond, she asked, "So…_what_?"

For the third time, Aziraphale began to repeat himself, but Eden cut him off with a wave of her hand.

"No, it's all right. I know what you said, I just…I don't understand how…I mean I think I'd _know _if I were a garden." She let out a sharp breath. "Do I _look _like a garden?" She threw out her arms grandly as if to indicate that there was nothing leafy about her whatsoever—or green, for that matter, save for her eyes.

"No. I'd be surprised if you did, frankly," said Aziraphale. "I imagine that would defeat the purpose of giving you a human form."

Crowley laughed. "Eden two-point-oh," he said.

Eden gave him a slightly bewildered look.

"Regardless," continued Aziraphale tentatively. "You _are _the Garden. The Garden of Eden, I mean. Incarnated in a mortal body, and—oh, dear, I'm sorry. This is terribly difficult to explain, and I can't imagine it's at all easy to believe." He looked at Eden like a guilty child examining the abandoned bird it had tried to rescue in a cardboard box, but which was no longer moving and may or may not have died. Like he was afraid he had broken her. The sunglasses left Crowley's expression more or less unreadable, but Eden had the sneaking suspicion he was giving her the same look.

She felt the strange urge to laugh. Suddenly, everything seemed ridiculous—the worried crease between Aziraphale's eyebrows, the way Crowley wouldn't quite look at her if he thought she was looking back, the fact that just a few hours ago she had been wondering idly if her homework was done. Nothing made much sense, she thought. Nothing ever really did.

But of everything that didn't make sense, the only small scrap of it that didn't feel outlandish and nonsensical and bizarre was what, by all logic, ought to have been the most fantastic, most unbelievable, most peculiar.

She was the Garden of Eden.

And it wasn't actually all that difficult to believe. That was the _really _strange part.It fit. It was like wandering around all day, wondering why people are staring at you, only to come home and realize you'd forgot to put on trousers. Her whole life—or what she had yet lived of it, anyway—Eden had had these pieces spread out in front of her, and suddenly they arranged themselves into a perfect, coherent picture. It wasn't that the pieces had moved or changed, though. It was just that Eden finally knew the proper way to look at them.

She was the Garden of Eden.

For all the sense it didn't make, but how right it still felt, it was, nonetheless, a very weird thought. More than a little unsettling, uncomfortable, definitely unexpected. And yet, at the same time, it wasn't. Eden herself was unsure exactly how it was possible—and she found thinking too much about it made her dizzy—but some ancient, hidden part of her, the same part that had recognized Crowley and Aziraphale without question, now gave what equaled a great celestial sigh of relief. She caught the sense that she had been waiting for this moment for as long as she had existed. Longer, perhaps.

It was sort of, though not exactly, the feeling that goes along with a happy cry of "Of course!"

A slow, infinitely peaceful smile dawned across Eden's face as something within her slid into its intended place. It was as though tiny vines of silk had tangled themselves into her veins. A weight like a felled tree lifted itself from her chest—it was an old, familiar weight, and a heavy one. Without it, Eden felt strangely light, as though she ought to start worrying about strong gusts of wind.

But the real kicker was that she simply didn't feel all that different. Relieved, perhaps, and sort of giddy and light-headed, but not more able or confident or wise, not more powerful or sure. Not even any kinder or more patient. She felt, if anything, more like herself, and a bit like an elephant that had received a Faberge egg as a gift. Weren't things like this supposed to require some sort of enormous self-sacrifice? Perhaps a grand battle between good and evil? An epic journey upon which she discovered her own inner strength and maybe some neat secret power that slumbered inside of her until it was a matter of life or death?

In any case, she was sure they were meant to take more than just a conversation.

A conversation with an angel and a demon one had previously assumed were only literary characters, perhaps, but a mere conversation nonetheless.

And what was she supposed to _do _about it?

Eden was unsurprised to find herself faintly disappointed. And incredibly grateful. She smiled at Aziraphale, a smile full of enigmatic unknowable, benevolent humor that was far older than the face that wore it.

"I believe you," she said. Her voice was full of dust, as though she hadn't spoken for centuries. "I don't know why, but I do. And…I understand. I think," she added, glancing up at Crowley and Aziraphale. She laughed. "You know, I'd be tempted to say this is just a dream, but I think I bruised my knee when I fell off the bed earlier, so that does seem to be ruled out as an option."

"Indeed," murmured Aziraphale, looking immensely relieved. This was turning out to be much easier than anticipated.

Eden nodded, turning to Nimbus and gathering him into her lap. The little cat began purring like an engine. Crowley chuckled and extended his long fingers toward the animal, who sniffed them suspiciously before allowing the demon to pet him.

"He probably knew," he said.

"Nimbus? What do you mean?" asked Eden.

"Animals tend to have a sense for this sort of thing," clarified Aziraphale. "Your—Nimbus, was it?—might have been drawn to you because he could tell what you are."

"You think?" Eden looked down at Nimbus. The cat met her gaze and meowed, as if agreeing.

"Did you know? Why didn't you tell me?"

Nimbus tried to rub against her hand, missed, and toppled against her stomach with a thwarted noise. Eden laughed softly, the love she had always borne for him almost more than she could endure, now. Her heart felt as though it had grown, somehow, and as if all of the space inside of her had been emptied in favor of its expansion. She was full to the brim with hazy silver warmth.

It seemed to Crowley and Aziraphale that Eden's skin was suddenly transparent, and she glowed with a gentle, muted light, like a lamp had been turned on inside of her.

Crowley jumped back in surprise.

The hasty retreat caught Eden's attention, and there was injured surprise in her eyes when she looked up.

"Something wrong?"

The glow had vanished.

"Uh, no," said Crowley. "Nothing." He turned to Aziraphale and raised his eyebrows in a clear 'care to explain that?'

Aziraphale shrugged.

Eden studied both of them carefully for a moment, mouth twisted slightly in dissatisfied curiosity. It would take some getting accustomed to, this innate urge to please she felt for them.

They stared back, a hesitant expectance in their stances.

"What?" she asked, mildly annoyed. "Why are you staring at me like that?"

They were saved from having to answer by the sudden, loud rushing of a waterfall that filled the room like watery shouting.

"Oh, blast," said Eden. "My alarm."

Nimbus leapt nimbly from the bed and padded over to the clock, rubbing against it irritably. Eden dove after him, legs flailing in the air as she reached for the power switch. Crowley waved a hand. The alarm shut off. Eden stared at the clock for a long minute, blinked.

"That's funny," she said. "It's supposed to stay on for thirty minutes unless you shut it off. I hope I haven't broken it." She pulled herself back onto the bed, frowning at the sleek black gadget. "My mum left the receipt for this thing on the counter and it cost a fortune."

"It isn't broken," Aziraphale assured her. Eden beamed up at him. It he said it, she knew, it must be true, whatever the state of the thing had been the moment before. She was reminded of Anathema's minor fracture on that dark Lower Tadfield street, and her smile widened.

"Eden?" There came a knock on her bedroom door, accompanied by her mother's voice. "Are you awake?"

"Shoot!" Eden hurdled off the bed and lunged and Aziraphale and Crowley. "You have to hide!" she whispered desperately, gripping a sleeve in each fist. "My mum _cannot _find you in here."

Aziraphale resisted, annoyed at being manhandled. "Now, dear, I'm sure if we spoke with your mother—"

"If you _what_? Are you mad? Really." She tugged vainly on his arm. "What sort of mother would be open to a discussion after finding strange men in her daughter's bedroom at five in the morning?"

Aziraphale had to admit she had a point. "But…where would we hide?"

"Er," said Eden. "Closet?"

Crowley balked at the suggestion. "You're joking," he said. He pulled away from Eden and smoothed out his sleeve. "The two of us would barely fit in there if it were empty."

"It's bigger than it looks," insisted Eden. "_Please, _Crowley."

It was odd, hearing her say his name. not bad, but not exactly, either. It made him feel dimly embarrassed.

Mrs. Gardiner knocked again. "Eden?"

"I'm awake, Mum!"

The doorknob shook.

"Eden, what have I told you about locking your door at night? You know I don't even like you closing it; what it Nimbus has to get out to use the cat box?"

"He never needs it at night," replied Eden.

"Open the door, please, Eden." It was clearly the tone of a mother, this request that was not actually a request.

"Just a second, Mum."

"What if something happened to you?" continued Mrs. Gardiner. "What if there were a fire, of burglars broke in through the window and no one could get to you?"

Eden paused to indulge in a wry smile at the irony of her mother's statement. Then she shoved Aziraphale and Crowley toward the closet—pushed at their arms and gestured madly, at any rate—and darted to the door.

Crowley was dismayed to find that he had been right. The closet was very small and packed with clothes. He had essentially to pin Aziraphale into a corner in order to get them both far enough inside to shut the door. The angel cleared his throat and stared with ardent interest at the ceiling. Crowley braced himself against the wall, one hand on either side of Aziraphale's head, to keep himself balanced. He glared at the floor, and a nearby shoe began to smolder.

"Sorry." Eden had ruffled her hair with her hands to give herself bed-head and rubbed at her eyes to get them a bit swollen. "I must've locked the door accidentally."

Mrs. Gardiner sighed. "I really wish you would stop this," she said, shooting through the lie with motherly accuracy.

Eden bit her lip guiltily. "I will," she promised.

"Can you hear what they're saying?" Aziraphale asked, more to fill up the silence than out of actual curiosity.

"Yeah," said Crowley, taking the opportunity to lean away and strain for the sound of Eden's conversation.

"All right, then. I'm making eggs; hurry and get dressed and come down for breakfast."

"Actually, Mum," groaned Eden. "I feel a bit ill."

Mrs. Gardiner eyed her daughter suspiciously. She reached out and pressed the back of her hand to Eden's forehead.

"She has a fever," hissed Crowley.

She did.

…

Eden opened the door of the closet gingerly, peering into its depths with a sheepish expression.

"Sorry about that," she said, stepping aside as Crowley stalked out. "I didn't mean to leave you in there so long. My mum wanted to make sure I had everything I'd need before she left for work. She goes sort of nuts when she thinks I'm sick."

"It's all right," Crowley replied, voice strained. "Not your fault." He adjusted his sunglasses and dusted off his jacket.

"Actually," Aziraphale pointed out. "I think it may be your fault."

"How d'you figure that?"

"You did give her the fever."

"What that you?" Eden laughed. "I was beginning to wonder if I had actually come down with something. Brilliant."

"I thought so at the time."

"How long were we in there, precisely?" asked Aziraphale.

Eden grimaced. "Near an hour? I really am sorry."

Aziraphale waved a hand. "No need for apologies," he assured her. "It was a necessary inconvenience."

"I hope you didn't like those brown shoes you've got near the back," said Crowley.

"Why? No, never mind, they don't fit anymore, anyway," said Eden, unexpectedly quiet. She bit the inside of her cheek and stared at her hands. "I, um, I've been thinking," she admitted. "And…I was wondering…what exactly is the point of this?" She waved her hands around as if to illustrate what she meant by 'this.'

Aziraphale frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand. This?"

"Me," clarified, Eden. "Being…what I am. What's the point? What am I supposed to do about it?"

"Er." Aziraphale looked to Crowley.

"How am I supposed to know? You're the angel."

Eden glanced hopefully at Aziraphale though mud-colored fringe.

He opened his mouth, and, for the second time that day, was prevented from speaking by an unexpected noise. This time, however, it was a far less welcome sound that that of Eden's alarm—the whip-crack of Eden's front door being smashed to splinters, followed by a deafening crash. Eden, Crowley and Aziraphale jumped at stared, stunned, at the doorway for several lengthy seconds before a gruff, raspy voice sing-songed up the stairs.

"Oh, Croooooooooooooooowley."

Crowley drew back with a hiss.

"What is it?" Aziraphale placed a hand on the demon's arm without taking his eyes off the open door.

"Not what," said Crowley roughly. "Who."

"Who?"

Menacing, deliberate footsteps started towards them, heavy and loud, but fast. Aziraphale beckoned to Eden, who went to him without question. He held her behind him protectively with one arm.

"_Who, _Crowley?"

Crowley grimaced. "Hastur. And from the sound of it he's brought friends."

Eden blanched. Hastur? The duke of Hell who'd been born to lurk? She'd always liked him in _Good Omens. _He'd made her laugh on more than one occasion—then again, he'd also always been nothing more than words on a page. Now, she was hit with the crawling realization that he was _real, _with a voice like gravel and gunfire, and currently coming up her stairs. She could feel him getting closer like a wave of heat emanating from a wildfire. And, as she cringed behind Aziraphale, she didn't feel much like laughing at all.

* * *

Questions? Comments? I'd love to hear your opinion!


	5. Luck of the Devil

Chapter Five already (now edited!) -the muses are with me, I think. Woo! XD Anyway, here it is. Hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of Crowley or Aziraphale, or Hastur for that matter, I do not own _Good Omens_, and I'm not even positive I have any legal rights to Eden. So there.

**Le'letha**-At least it's evil in a good way! Glad I could make you laugh. Thanks so much for the review. I appreciate it. : )

**oddsbobs**-Oh I love you love you love you. Your reviews are twenty times better than letters. And you're definately right about the sense of redundancy; every time I read the part where Eden's thinking, something bothered me, but I could never put my finger on what it was. You got it _perfectly_ and I'm so glad I realized why it bothers me have no idea how helpful your reviews are to my writing. Really. I'm glad you're still enjoying it, and I'm so grateful for your encouragement. Real Life may delay it, but as long as you keep reading, I'll keep writing!

**EllipsisAddict-** Thank you for the assurance on Eden's character! You know I _am _addicted to slash (hooray slash!), but this story actually isn't meant to be. XD I feel so oblivious; when I put Crowley and Aziraphale in a closet together, I didn't realize that I had actually _put Crowley and Aziraphale into a closet_ until I was reading it over, and I liked it and didn't want to change it. Besides, by then it was an intregal part of the chapter and I couldn't change it without changing everything that came after. I'm not sure if it was just my inner slasher kicking in, but it wasn't meant to be, and though I don't doubt some subtle slash may sneak itself in occasionally, it's completely unintentional.

**TheMadMaiden-**No cliffhanger in this chapter, I promise! Hope it's satisfying.

* * *

The sound of shattering glass came in from the hallway, and Eden pressed her face against Aziraphale's shoulder, terror like a vice-grip on her lungs. Crowley muttered something under his breath. Eden couldn't hear what he said, but it seemed to chill the air around him. She shivered. There was the distinct sensation of something cold crawling under her skin. Almost out of instinct, she tightened her grip on Aziraphale's arm. Aziraphale cleared his throat and glanced at Crowley.

"What happens to Eden if he finds her here?" his voice was clipped and serious. Eden imagined it must be the tone he used with potential customers in the bookshop. It certainly had the effect of making one uncomfortable.

"Dunno," grunted Crowley. "He wouldn't let _us_ keep her, that's for good and sure." He paused, then added hesitantly, "He might kill her."

Aziraphale winced. "He wouldn't. Your people would never allow that."

"I don't pretend to know what my people are allowing these days," snapped Crowley. "Just because _I _wouldn't kill her…I mean, I have no idea what the general consensus of the Garden is Down There. They might be—"

"Please stop," croaked Eden. Crowley stopped. She drew away from Aziraphale far enough to scoop Nimbus into her arms as he padded over. His eyes remained fixed to the same point as Crowley's and Aziraphale's.

Eden held him close to her chest, paralyzed with dread. She felt cold all over.

Crowley backed away from the door slowly, addressed Aziraphale over his shoulder.

"I've got an idea," he said. "Go along with me, all right?"

"I trust you," Aziraphale nodded.

Eden hoped the confidence in his voice was catching.

Crowley snapped his fingers. The desk in the corner upturned itself, scattering papers and smashing against the wall with the vicious crack of splintering wood. Several framed pictures plummeted from the walls. Books soared from the shelves and shredded themselves mid-air. Crowley took a moment to appraise his handiwork before he seized Aziraphale by the collar and slammed him back against Eden's chest of drawers. The huge piece of furniture tipped drunkenly, sending the potted plant balanced atop it toppling to the floor.

Eden let out a breath so sharp it might have been a scream, clamping a hand over her mouth and sinking to her knees in pain. She crawled to the spot of fresh dirt and scattered pottery, reaching out tenderly to the dying plant.

Hastur's entrance hardly compared to the terrible din already present in the room. Crowley turned to the other demon, looking mildly annoyed.

"Crowley," rasped Hastur, sounding uncomfortable and confused.

"Hastur," said Crowley coolly. "Remembered my name this time, have you? How'd you know I was here?"

"Saw your car." Hastur surveyed the scene before him—the carnage of Eden's ruined possessions, the slight, pale girl sobbing in the corner, the very frightened-looking angel pinned by the throat against a chest of drawers.

"What's going on, then?" he said.

"What does it _look _like?" said Crowley through gritted teeth. When he realized that Hastur obviously had no idea what it looked like, he added, "I'm retrieving the Garden from the angel. _This _angel." He jerked up on his arm, and Aziraphale gurgled and struggled helpfully.

"Hm," said Hastur. "I dunno as to how I believe you."

Crowley let out a barely audible hiss, tossing Aziraphale aside like a ragdoll. The angel landed bodily at Eden's side, and she clutched desperately at his arm.

"Don't believe me?" The corner of Crowley's mouth twitched.

Eden's eyes darted from Hastur to Crowley to Aziraphale, her mind whirring desperately. She gnawed at her lower lip, then let out a desolate wail.

"Please, Aziraphale," she whined. "What's going to happen to me? Please don't let them hurt me." She winced at her own frightful acting, but at least Hastur looked her way. There was that. "What's going on? Is he a demon, too? You have to protect me!"

Please let it work. _Please _let it work. She attempted a whimper or two and leaned into Aziraphale. Hastur frowned at her, and Eden's terrified cowering was not all pretend.

"Are you a demon, too?" she managed. Her throat felt tight, and forcing out words was more of a struggle than she could ever remember it being. "Please don't hurt me."

Crowley fell right in step with Eden's charade, meeting Hastur with a smug smile as the duke of Hell looked his way again.

Told you so.

Next to Eden, Aziraphale shifted uncomfortably, pulling a plant mister out from underneath him.

"Oh, dear. I haven't broken it, I hope?" He handed it to Eden with an apologetic smile.

"I don't think so. Too bad there isn't holy water in it," she jested grimly.

"What was that?" asked Aziraphale.

"I said 'too bad there isn't holy water in it.' There's this bit in _Good Omens, _you see, where—"

"Let me see that." said Aziraphale, taking the mister again. He traced a shape on the plastic bulb with his thumb, muttered a few words. Then he handed it back to Eden.

"There," he said. "Now it's holy water."

Eden stared at him, dumbfounded. "What?"

"I said, 'now it's holy water.'" He didn't say, 'so do something with it,' but he didn't have to. Eden knew what he meant.

"I don't know that this'll work," she warned him. "Especially if there are more of them than just Hastur."

"It can hardly get worse than it is, dear. Besides, it isn't as though we have a better option." He seemed slightly resentful of this fact.

"Right." Eden gripped the plant mister. Nimbus threw his body against her in support. One hand went to pet his bony shoulders, as if she could draw strength from the tiny form. She was scared. She was so, so scared. Her throat felt as though it had been coated with sandpaper, and she had lost all feeling in her legs. They felt like ice up to the knees.

Eden's finger paused on the trigger of the mister. She tried to catch Hastur's attention by calling his name, but the word wouldn't come. She squeaked. Hastur turned.

Noticing the cheap plastic mister she held like it could protect her, he laughed, and the sound brought the feeling back to Eden's legs and made her want to run. Nothing good could ever laugh like that.

"I've seen this trick before," said Hastur. "You can't make a fool of me."

Eden held the mister out in front of her, hating herself for how her hand was shaking. Hastur leaned in close in an open display of bravado against what he thought to be a bluff, and a poor one at that. He opened his mouth to speak, and Eden chose that moment to squeeze the trigger, firing a fine line of water right down the demon's throat.

Hastur immediately began to choke, stumbling backwards, clutching his neck. He spurted angrily, belching up large clouds of foul-smelling brown smoke. Eden watched in fascinated horror, arm still extended, finger still tight on the trigger of the mister.

Aziraphale peeled it gingerly from her hand. He set the nozzle to mist.

Crowley helped the angel to his feet, then went to Eden. He had practically to haul her to a standing position—her eyes were glued to the grotesque form of Hastur as he gagged, making the most stomach-turningly wet-sounding retching noises. She was rooted to the spot with shock, veins pumped full of horror and nausea.

The random, rhythmic patterns of approaching footfalls did little to ease this, but it did inspire Crowley to action. He pulled Eden to his side, mimicking Aziraphale's earlier protective stance, and gestured to his companion, who nodded and stepped nervously into the hallway to greet to impending wave of demons, the plant mister clutched tightly in his hand. The howls of unearthly pain and rage brought Eden's attention back to the matter at hand like a slap to the face, which Crowley had only sort of been considering.

"Crowley, he's going to run out of water," she whispered.

Crowley glanced at her, mouth thin and slanted, an expression that seemed to say, 'oh, you've decided to help again, have you?' He looked away, but Eden knew it was only to keep an eye out for any demons that managed to slip past Aziraphale. There weren't any, but Crowley was fully aware that Eden had a valid point. It was only a matter of time.

"All right, come on then," he said. He made sure Eden was behind him as he stepped out into the hallway. It was rapidly becoming inundated with plumes of the same oily brown smoke Eden had read about so many times. Reading about it had not prepared her for the smell—like rotted, burning fish. She felt like she'd just swallowed a handful of mashed slugs.

"Ugh," she said. Her voice sounded green at the edges.

The hall was completely filled with smoke now, and Crowley had disappeared. Eden couldn't make out any shapes in the shifting, dirty air, though she knew they couldn't be far. Pressing the sleeve of her nightgown against her nose, she called Aziraphale's name weakly—best not to mention Crowley, just to be safe, just in case someone was paying attention. A hand grabbed her wrist. She startled, but closed her fingers intuitively around a sleeve that felt expensive and, praying, allowed herself to be led though the tumult and down the stairs.

The grip tightened as they came through the smoke, and it became clear that it was Aziraphale who led her, Crowley following close behind. They moved with the speed of necessity through the house and reached the front door, which flew open before them. The members of Hastur's rag-tag militia who had avoided the holy water assault bellowed angrily and fumbled after them. Those who had not clutched sizzling wounds and screamed and screamed. Eden pressed her hands to her ears as Aziraphale urged her outside.

She stopped stubbornly in the doorway.

"What're you doing?" demanded Crowley.

"Nimbus," said Eden, looking about her feet in panic. "Where's Nimbus?"

"What?" said Crowley. "Oh, for—"

"I can't leave him in this! I have to go back for him."

Crowley sucked in a sharp breath, swallowed a blessing. "Just…just stay here, all right? I'll get the bloody cat. You, make sure she doesn't come running after me." He pointed a finger at Aziraphale, then vanished back into the spreading cloud of smoke.

Eden stared after him with a mixture of gratitude, concern, amazement, confusion, and love. It was a rather exhausting array of emotions. She looked at Aziraphale, who stared back with a knowing smile.

Crowley emerged moments later, sunglasses hanging from one ear, Nimbus attached to his jacket by sixteen wicked little hooks. They both bore expressions of almost comical harassment.

"Can we _go _now?" Crowley hissed.

There came a thunderous, scratchy sound from the direction of Eden's bedroom. The sort of sound one might expect, say, from a duke of Hell who'd been forced to gargle with holy water.

Without another word, the angel, the demon, and the Garden of Eden fled into the street, preceded by the pale grey form of the Garden's Nimbus.

The Bentley was parked at the corner to avoid drawing undue attention to Eden's house. Now Crowley regretted this decision, as it mean they actually had to _get _to the corner. This would not have been such a problem had it been only him and Aziraphale, but Eden could only move so quickly, and the ground under her bare feet was cold and littered with sharp gravel. She refused to complain, but Aziraphale noticed the soft, pained noises that escaped her despite her best efforts, and Crowley noticed the slight limp in her gait. Each taking an arm, they half-carried her to the car, the street behind them clogged with what resembled a mass of writhing, glowing nuclear waste.

Crowley threw himself into the driver's seat. Aziraphale tore open the passenger's side door and dove in, pulling Eden after him. Eden reached out for Nimbus as the cat leapt for her.

"Go!" cried Aziraphale.

Crowley did not need to be told twice. The gas pedal was pressed against the floor before Eden could shut the door. Crowley willed it shut.

As they sped off, disappearing down the road to the sound of squealing tyres, Eden twisted around in the seat to watch her home go up in flames. All of her things—the oak in her garden, the flowers, her poor potted plants—were as far beyond her reach now as if they had never existed at all. A sob caught in her throat.

"What's going to happen to my mum?" Her voice startled the other inhabitants of the vehicle. "Are there going to be demons after her, too? She's got nowhere to go, now." She turned to Aziraphale. "There must be something you can do. Promise me you'll protect her. I won't be able to live with myself if she's hurt because of me."

Her face was unbearably pale, like a full moon, and she glanced earnestly back and forth between Crowley and Aziraphale. There was distress in her eyes, but also a firmness that dared them to deny her.

"Your mother will be fine," Aziraphale assured her. "I'm sure I can solicit aid from my superiors. They'll send someone to look after her."

Eden nodded. "Make sure. Promise you'll make sure." She leaned back against the seat and glanced out the window, shifting against Aziraphale until she was wedged more or less comfortably next to him. "She's going to be so worried," she whispered.

Aziraphale put an arm around her. "We'll figure something out, I promise. You should get some sleep for now. There will be time."

Eden hadn't been particularly tired, before, but she found now that her thoughts were clogged up with sleep. Her eyelids were heavy, and her limbs felt weak. She yawned hugely and leaned into Aziraphale, and soon enough her breathing grew deep and slow. Her slight, whistling snore filled the air. Nimbus was curled up in her lap, and even in his sleep his breaths were quick and shallow.

Aziraphale gazed on them both fondly. "She certainly does love that cat," he said.

"Guess so," said Crowley.

"She would be distraught if anything were to happen to it."

"S'pose she would." Crowley narrowed his eyes and looked at Aziraphale out of the corner of them. "You have a point?"

"It was very brave of you to go back for it. Very _kind_."

"Yeah? Remind me not to do it in the future, then."

Aziraphale's eyes shifted to the window, a smile affixed to his face. "You could have been in a lot of danger, you know."

Crowley snorted derisively. "From that lot? They were nothing. Imps, the whole of them. Other than Hastur, of course, but he wasn't going anywhere fast."

"Of course," allowed Aziraphale. "They were no match for you."

"No," agreed Crowley warily.

"But for a weak little _cat…_" Aziraphale trailed off vaguely, but Crowley didn't rise to the bait. "The chance of such a small creature surviving an attack from even the lowliest agent of Hell would be nothing short of a miracle, one feels."

"It's a lucky cat," replied Crowley, heavily staccato.

Aziraphale sighed. "Crowley, don't think I hadn't noticed you healing that bird. You recall, I—"

"That has nothing to do with the current situation," snapped Crowley. "What makes you so sure the cat wasn't alive when I found it?"

"Was it?"

Crowley snatched a furious glare at Aziraphale, then focused on the road ahead, lips pressed tightly together.

Silence.

"Ah," said Aziraphale. "As I thought." He smiled like a proud parent.

Crowley looked murderous. He opened his mouth, releasing a huff of angry air, then snapped it shut again.

"Hey."

"Yes?" said Aziraphale.

"Don't tell her."

Aziraphale smiled. "I won't," he promised.

Crowley grunted something dangerously close to a 'thank you.'

"You are quite welcome."

Eden snorted in her sleep, turning toward the window with a sigh. Nimbus was forced to relinquish his place in her arms as she curled up, retreating instead to Aziraphale's open lap. The angel made a mildly horrified face as the animal settled into place, and Crowley threw back his head and laughed.

* * *

Special thanks to a friend who figured out that I wrote this and was kind enough to edit this chapter for me.


	6. Pancakes and Houseplants

Chapter Six up finally! I'm so sorry for the wait- I was in D.C. for a week without internet access on a class trip that exactly 12 of us went on, and I've been driving myself insane trying to make up work. But, sure enough, here it is! Hope you enjoy!

**Disclaimer-**I don't own Good Omens or any of its characters. That honor goes to the Hon. Mr.s Pratchett and Gaiman.

**Le'letha-**The holy water thing was actually inspired by an experience I had that was remarkably similar to that! It was at church, though. I had always thought blessing water was something only a priest could do because it was incredibly difficult and involved an overnight vigil or something. Go figure.

**EllipsisAddict**-I'm so glad you like Nimbus! I've been wanting to add an animal character into one of my fics for a while, and he just seemed to fit so well. Haha, go ahead and snicker. I did too. :)

**The Mad Maiden-**Thank you- I love the kind side to Crowley that he indulges but tries so hard to hide. It's so much fun to bring it out.

**Hannah-**Thanks so much! I'm glad you're enjoying!

**oddsbobs-** Glad to make you happy! Agh, that part. You know, I read that over like eight times, and there was just _something_ I hated about it, but I think I just convinced myself that it was supposed to kind of hurt to read, because Eden was really that bad at acting. But I'm so lucky to have lovely people like you to point out that it's not only in my head. Thank you for that! It's edited! Hastur's presence is explained a little in this chapter, but it gets deeper, so keep an eye out! I love hearing from you. :D

**Hoddmimirswoods-**First of all, do I spy a fellow shoeboxer? Hallo there! Secondly, thanks for reading. I'm glad you like it!

**Heta Noitio**-Thanks for reading! I have to admit, the decision to put GO in the story was pretty much spawned out of, "If this was to happen to me, what would I need to be able to believe that the two strange men in my bedroom were an angel and demon that had somehow befriended one another?" I figured that if GO existed, it would be easier for Eden to accept what was happening. Thank you so much! I really cannot get enough of being told that Eden is not a MS. I worry about it SO MUCH. Still being a rather new writer, I try to write characters that I can somewhat relate to, especially if they're OC. And then I decide to write Aziraphale and Crowley, who are incredibly difficult to keep in character. XD The 'mister angel' has been edited, and is gone forever. Thank you for pointing that out, too, though. I really, honestly do appreciate concrit. Hooray for grammar! It is pitifully ignored these days, even in stories. It makes my skin crawl.

**Joon-**Thank you! I love writing Crowley and Aziraphale together. I hope you continue to enjoy the story.

**Lili-**XD

* * *

Eden was still asleep when they reached Crowley's London flat. After a brief argument, no less heated for its lack of volume, Aziraphale stepped aside and brushed vainly at the cat hairs clinging to his trousers while Crowley gathered the dead weight of Eden's slumbering frame into his arms. He was probably a little less gentle than he might have been, but he didn't drop her. She wasn't as light as she looked.

"Here, allow me to get the door." Aziraphale held out his hand for a key, but Crowley only gave him an amused smile and gestured to the door.

"Go ahead."

It swung open easily at Aziraphale's touch.

"You don't lock your door?" He sounded horrified. "In this day and age, do you realize how dangerous that is? With all the rampant crime, and burglars, and murders, and—"

He stopped, insulted, as Crowley began to laugh.

"You honestly think I worry about that sort of thing? I'm offended by that, frankly. As if a _burglar _could do anything to me." Still chuckling, he went into the flat with his back to Aziraphale.

Aziraphale lingered in the doorway. "I…" he said. "Will you be all right, er, how does one say it, 'holding down the fort' for a little while without me?"

"Where are you going?" Crowley grunted and shifted Eden's weight in his arms.

"I need to speak with some of my people," explained Aziraphale. "There are some matters that ought to be cleared up. It's nothing you need to fret over. I promised Eden I'd make sure her mother was taken care of, remember. And I suppose I'll need to explain Hastur's presence. You wouldn't happen to know why he was after you, would you?"

Crowley shrugged. "I'm more concerned about how he found us."

Aziraphale nodded, his mouth thin with disquiet. "Well, we should at least put Eden somewhere comfortable. She must be exhausted if she still hasn't woken up. You won't mind giving up your bed for a while, will you?"

Crowley made a face.

"She's technically a guest. It wouldn't do to make her sleep on the sofa."

He knew well that it was a perfectly comfortable sofa, but something in him cringed at the thought of offering the Garden anything less than a normal bed. Besides, Crowley's bed was bound to be at least twice as comfortable—he occasionally slept in the thing. Aziraphale wasn't sure he had actually ever seen Crowley sit down in the flat.

"Fine," said Crowley.

Aziraphale smiled and nudged Nimbus, who had been trotting obediently—if hesitantly—behind them through the open doorway, then turned and walked briskly down the hall. He disappeared around a corner, and Crowley watched after him for a bit before carrying Eden inside and kicking the door shut behind him.

"Stay off the sofa, you," he told Nimbus pointedly.

Crowley's bedroom was a little island of a room off a small flight of stairs that wound up from the lounge. The carpeting was immaculate and beige-colored. The far wall was mostly hidden by plain black curtains that blocked out all light and covered a set of sliding glass doors. Beyond the doors was a small veranda. Crowley hadn't been out there since he'd first acquired the place, and then it had only been to remove the unsightly patio furniture that had somehow taken up residence there. Heights made him uncomfortable for a reason he could probably name very easily but preferred not to think about.

Eden moaned quietly as Crowley set her down—a soft, disoriented noise that made him feel disturbingly protective. She tossed for a moment, mussing the perfectly smoothed sheets, before settling on her side. Then she sighed, slipping back into the comfortable state of undisturbed sleep. Nimbus shot to her side like a streak of lightening and curled up next to her lovingly, resting his head on his oversized paws.

Would it be going too far to tuck her in?

Yes, decided Crowley eventually. Yes, it would.

Crowley yawned and slunk downstairs, where he lay stiffly on the sofa and stared fixedly at the front door until sleep overcame him.

…

Something very solid and a little sharp jabbed Eden into waking. She propelled herself away from it with a sleepy snort and the strange, jerky speed of the groggy and surprised. She landed on the floor with a thud. Déjà vu.

"Hngh," she said. "Ow."

"Well I tried giving you the bed," came Crowley's voice, half-amused, half-annoyed. "You weren't having it."

Eden blinked up at him. "Huh?" She pushed the hair out of her face. "Where are we?"

The room was large and airy, a sleek, modern sculpture of white paint and stainless steel. Very fashionable, if not terribly cozy. Eden found herself sprawled next to a slim leather sofa, more art than furniture. It was the sort of thing owned by someone who doesn't use their furniture very often for anything other than being proud of it.

She slipped back onto the sofa and tucked her legs beneath her, suddenly very awake.

Spacious? Check.

White? Oh, yes, blindingly so.

Elegantly furnished? She felt fancier just for being there.

So this was Crowley's flat. It was everything _Good Omens _had led her to expect and then some.

Eden craned her neck for a better look around the room. "You live here? This place is amazing."

Crowley shrugged, pseudo-humble, and spread his hands. "It's a place to hang my pitchfork," he said.

Eden seemed to barely hear him. She nodded, scanning the room with the scrutiny of a security camera. "It's exactly how I imagined it would be." She turned her attention back to Crowley.

"What did you say about putting me on the bed?"

"I tried to," replied Crowley, watching her warily. "But you kept coming back out here and shoving me off the sofa. The last time I tried to move you back, you hit me."

"I did?" Eden's eyes went wide, her hands raised to cover her mouth. "You're not joking? I'm so sorry; I don't remember it at all."

"Slapped me, actually," added Crowley idly. "Right across the face."

"I said I'm sorry," said Eden. "I must've been sleepwalking. Strange. I've never been sleepwalking, before."

Crowley shrugged. "It's fine by me. Not the slapping—don't get used to that—but you're more than free to sleep out here, if it suits you. Just means I get to keep the bed."

Eden laughed. "We'll call it even, then," she said. Her gaze continued to flick about the room determinedly, but without any purpose Crowley could discern.

"Sounds fair. What are you doing? You're making me dizzy."

"Sorry," said Eden distractedly. She didn't sound particularly sorry, nor did she stop. "I was just looking for—oh!"

Her voice came out in a little breath so sweet it sounded like singing. She was kneeling backwards on the couch, fingers pressing into the leather, her eyes vivid and unblinking in the bright light filtering in through the high, clean windows. Gathered before her in a great emerald wave, poised in perfect formation like a gleaming botanical army encampment, were Crowley's houseplants. Aloe plants, African violets, and Indian rubber tree, philodendrons, painted tongue, devil's ivy, even—and Eden noted this one with a small laugh—and angel wing plant. All were larger and more brilliantly colored than she had ever imagined was possible. They seemed like more than mere plants—they were the paramount exemplar of the nearly unattainable potential of their individual species, the apex of botanical evolution. They were beautiful.

Eden felt light-headed.

"Oh," she said again. "_Oh_."

"Nice, aren't they?" Crowley preened.

Eden moved around the sofa slowly, carefully, eyes fixed on the veritable sea of shining leaves. She hardly dared to breathe.

"Nice?" she whispered. "Crowley, they're _wonderful. _They're magnificent, they're…" Words failed her utterly. She approached the plants like a pilgrim treading on sacred ground, and they seemed almost to lean toward her, to reach out as a sunflowers strains for the sun.

Then she turned to beam at Crowley, and he understood why.

"You're amazing," she informed him bluntly.

'Yes, well," said Crowley. He held up his hands and waggled his fingers. "Green fingers, you see. All of them."

Eden's smile widened. "I can see that." She passed another loving gaze over the plants, extended a hand to brush a gentle touch over a cool, powdery lavender petal. She held a glossy leaf between two fingers. Her expression grew strained.

"Crowley?"

"Hm?"

"You…you don't _really _kill the plants if they don't grow quickly enough, do you?" The question had been worrying her for a while, now.

"No," said Crowley casually.

Eden tried, in vain, to hide her sigh of relief, but Crowley hadn't finished.

"I mean, it's not only when they grow slowly. Sometimes they go all wilty and brown around the edges." He crossed his arms, clearly unwilling to make excuses for himself. He wasn't seeking Eden's absolution on the matter—they were his plants, he was free to do what he liked with them.

Eden's mouth twisted sharply into an ugly sneer. The light went from her eyes.

Was it just Crowley, or had the room gotten colder all of a sudden?

Outside the windows, a mass of thick, dark storm clouds moved in from nowhere to smother the sun with ancient expertise.

It had been a little over six thousand years since Crowley had slithered onto the fresh new soil of the Garden—an odd concept to think about, now that she stood before him—and since then he'd been the object of more anger, fear, and revulsion than he cared to think about, lest it go straight to his ego. But he had never experienced anything like the look Eden was giving him now. It was as though she were processing the situation with two separate sets of understanding, girl and Garden, resulting in a baffled mixture of hatred so searing and intense Crowley realized he was nearly cringing away from her, disbelieving surprise, and heartbreaking betrayal, all underlined an utter, hopeless incomprehension.

Then she blinked and shook her head, and all that remained on her face was a look of singular determination. Get a hold of yourself, she thought. What right have you got to get angry? Had you expected that everything you'd disliked about him in the book would be magically erased on your behalf?

She frowned thoughtfully. "Can I ask you something?"

Crowley had half expected her to try and strike him, again, this time fully conscious and with the full force of purpose behind it. He relaxed slightly.

"Can't stop you," he said.

"Would you still kill the plants if none of them ever rotted or wilted? If they all grew quickly?"

"Probably," admitted Crowley. "It's the principle of the matter, you understand. Have to keep them on their toes."

Eden let out a frustrated noise, nodded. She pressed her lips together as she looked up at the demon, but a grudging smile nonetheless pulled itself across her face. Had it been anyone else, Eden knew, she'd probably never speak to him again, might even have done something rash and physical and probably gotten her own arse handed to her. But it was _Crowley, _and somehow she knew that when it came to him—and Aziraphale, too, she was sure, though she hadn't had a chance to prove it—she would always be helpless to do anything but forgive, though she was damned if she knew why.

She supposed she was just inclined to be indulgent with them because they were, well, Crowley and Aziraphale.

And yet at the same time she knew there was more to it than that.

The smile she gave Crowley widened, rising remarkably higher on one side than that other, as though the trait of a crooked smile had been bestowed upon her by someone who had only ever read about them in books and had never actually seen them in practical application.

"We'll see about that," she said.

Crowley raised an eyebrow.

"We'll see," repeated Eden cryptically. "Where's Aziraphale?"

Crowley made and irritated gesture and crossed his arms. "Soho, in all likelihood. At the bookshop. Said he needed to have a word with the folks Upstairs."

"About my mum?"

"Possibly. Probably, actually, since it's Aziraphale we're talking about and he did promise. Most likely his people will want to know whether he was successful in finding you."

This threw Eden into an uncomfortable silence. She was still becoming accustomed to the concept of being so important on such a grand level. It was exhausting, if one thought about it too closely.

In that vein of thought, she wondered how long she'd been asleep.

"Don't you think I ought to have gone with him? Just, you know, as proof that he found me?"

"He didn't think so. Said I should let you sleep." Leave it to Aziraphale to leave her behind when he needed her just because she was a little tired. It was exactly sort of unconscious, self-sacrificing attitude that never ceased to baffle Crowley. It wasn't so much that Aziraphale put everyone else before himself _all the time_—Crowley reckoned he could do that, too, if he tried hard enough and provided he had some worthy motivation—it was that Aziraphale did it _without thinking about it._

Mind-boggling, that was what it was.

Eden's stomach grumbled angrily.

…

"I don't think that's right." Crowley raised an eyebrow at the black, powdery crust lining the bottom of the pan Eden held. She poked at it despairingly with a spatula.

"I don't think so, either," she said sadly. She re-checked the instructions on the pancake package. Nimbus, who had the uncanny ability to appear virtually from thin air whenever he heard cupboards being opened, rubbed against her ankles expectantly.

"I told you to let me do it," said Crowley.

Eden ignored him, her eyebrows creasing together. "You reckon I should've mixed in the eggs before I put it in the pan?"

The door crashed open violently, causing both Eden and Crowley to jump. A very disheveled Aziraphale charged in, eyes wild, panic plastered across his features. At the sight of Crowley and Eden and the pan of botched pancakes, he froze, mouth hanging open. The three of them stood for a long moment, Eden's face bearing an almost exact copy of Aziraphale's expression of shocked bewilderment. Crowley's lips were pressed tightly together in what might have been a grin. Then again, it could also have passed for a grimace.

Finally, Aziraphale said, breathlessly, "I smelled smoke."

"I made breakfast," said Eden. She held out the pan half-heartedly. "At least I tried to."

"Oh," said Aziraphale, a blush creeping up the back of his neck. "I thought…never mind. Did you say breakfast? I'm starving."

Crowley took the pan from Eden and set it aside.

"I don't think it's entirely edible," he said, wiping his hands delicately on a dish towel. "Why don't we go out?"

Aziraphale nodded. "That sounds lovely," he said, sounding incredibly tired for a being who didn't technically need to sleep.

Eden noticed now that he was unusually pale, and his skin was covered in a thin film of sweat. She supposed this could be a side-effect of the fact that he'd apparently sprinted to the flat from Soho, but the way his hands were shaking suggested a more sinister explanation. She also noticed the awkward feeling of being…not unwelcome, exactly, but incredibly in-the-way prickling at her skin like static electricity. She felt like a child, again, a benign and curious presence who sat blithely by while well-meaning adults spoke carefully in code words and analogies over her head.

Only with Crowley and Aziraphale, it was many times worse, as the conversation was mostly silent, consisting of Crowley executing complicated combinations of brow-raising and head-tilting while Aziraphale nodded and waved one hand slightly. It was fascinating to watch, like sitting in on secret agents exchanging high signs, and Eden was almost tempted to stay and see what happened next. Almost.

"I'll, uh, I'll go get dressed then, shall I?" Ignoring the fact that she didn't have a scrap of clothing to her name other than the dirty, torn nightgown she wore, Eden snagged a can of tuna from the cupboard and retreated with Nimbus to Crowley's bedroom.

Aziraphale watched after her nervously, pale eyes flickering to narrow suspiciously at Crowley.

"What did you tell her?" he asked.

"I didn't tell her anything," replied Crowley. "I didn't need to, with you busting in here looking like you've been run though by a lorry."

Aziraphale sighed, his entire body sagging into itself like a deflated balloon.

"Yes, of course. My apologies, dear boy. My nerves are rather frazzled at the moment. I do so dislike having to…withhold the truth from my superiors."

"Your meeting went well, then?"

Aziraphale said nothing, his gaze darting desperately over the floor at his feet. Then he raised his eyes to lock them with Crowley's, and there was a fear in them the demon hadn't seen in a long time.

"It wasn't all bad," he began hesitantly. "Eden's mother is safe—there's that. I've also sorted out the situation with Hastur…more or less, that is."

"What'd you tell them?"

"The truth—I told them I'd been caught by surprise by a group of demons after tracking down the Garden. They know Hastur was there, but I thought it best to keep your name out of things. I imagine Hastur will make sure the pertinent authorities are aware of your presence."

"Hm," said Crowley noncommittally. "Did they know anything about how Hastur knew where to find Eden?"

The moment he saw Aziraphale's reaction to the question, Crowley almost wished he hadn't asked. All the color—what little was left of it, anyway—drained from the angel's face, and he wound his fingers together tightly, expertly avoiding further eye contact.

"They did…know something," he admitted finally.

Crowley waited.

Aziraphale looked at him beseechingly. "We can't stay here much longer. You do know that, don't you?"

"Of course I do. Stop trying to change the subject."

Aziraphale sighed, his shoulders drooping. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to, I only…"

"Aziraphale." Crowley attempted a comforting hand on Aziraphale's arm. He was caught off-guard by how badly Aziraphale was shaking. "What's going on?"

"As far as my people understand it, Hastur has been assigned the task of locating Eden for your side. However, one assumes certain authorities grew rather tetchy after years passed without result. They have, as it were, enlisted a third party with some apparent expertise in the matter."

"Expertise?" asked Crowley.

"Yes, uh, someone with…experience of the Garden's presence," said Aziraphale hurriedly, sounding straggled and nervous. "I imagine it would give her a sort of advantage in finding Eden again, or at least that may be the theory." He stopped, glanced up at Crowley. His face was softened into an apologetic, slightly wincing expression, as though it hurt him to be the bearer of this news. Crowley did not meet his eyes.

"Her," he said, frowning thoughtfully. Looking at Aziraphale, he added, "Is it who I think it is?"

Aziraphale nodded. "It's Eve, Crowley."

* * *

Comments? Concerns? Questions? Let me know!


	7. All About Eve

Chapter Seven- finally! My sincerest apologies for the ridiculously long wait. I've been busy as a bee, and my muse decided to desert me for a while. So I re-read _Good Omens_. It's done wonders for me. :)

**Disclaimer- **_Good Omens_ and its wonder and glory belong solely to Mssrs. Pratchett and Gaiman, and though Eve and Eden do not appear in the book, I'd be more than willing to let the good Mssrs. have them.

**Hoddmimirswoods-**Haha, hurray Shoebox! Hope you enjoy the next chapter!

**The Mad Maiden-**You would definitely be right in assuming that Eve has a fondness for Eden! I'm glad you liked Eden's sleeping habits- I figured it would only be her natural reaction to being seperated from the plants. No problem! Glad to help. :) Thanks for reading!

**EllipsisAddict**- I'm glad you liked it! I hope this chapter makes up for the wait, too.

**Sivaroobini Lupin-Black-**Well, I can't claim to be an expert in Christianity, though I am Catholic. XD But I do know that, the way I learned it, Adam's death closed the Gates of Heaven, which meant that neither he and Eve nor anyone else could enter. Then Jesus Christ after his Resurrection, descended into Hell to bring all the good men who had died previously into Heaven. It's called the Harrowing of Hell, I think. Adam and Eve were supposedly included in the Harrowing, but my version of Eve decided to stay Downstairs rather than spend eternity with a husband she found irritating-and who blamed her for their expulsion from Paradise. Ah, yes, I realize Eden's feelings for Crowley seem odd in that light, but there are two main reasons that she loves him as much as she does. 1. He is half of her favorite literary duo, and 2. it's her basic nature to love. She was created to be a place of love, and she cannot really be complete without somone to love unconditionally. Also, I believe that since she wasn't really concious as a garden, she would have accepted Crawly's presence without a second thought, and he would have become incredibly important to her. To have at least two of her orignial inhabitants returned to her, and to be concious of it, would make her so happy that she probably wouldn't question it. I hope that answers your question- I realize I tend to babble. And to your finaly question- I'm not sure. I started this story with the intention of keeping their relationship completely platonic, and I'm not sure if I trust myself with their characters to the degree that I would need to be to slash them, but I keep writing them into closets unconciously. So I just can't say for sure anymore. XD

**Happyhedgehog-**I'm so glad you like the story! Thank you for reading; I hope you enjoy this chapter!

**jolie7886**-Thankyouthankyouthankyou for the lovely compliment! I can't even describe the boost that gave my self-esteem. I worry constantly about my characterization, and to know that I'm not doing such a bad job is such a wonderful thing. Thank you again, and I hope you keep liking the story!

And to the anonymous review- It's updated:D

* * *

Hastur disliked many things—the reaction came naturally to most proper demons, just as being benevolently fond of things came naturally to their heavenly counterparts. It was generally a trait that Hastur admired in himself, and he tried to go out of his way to encounter new things as often as he could in order to develop an instant distaste for them. It was one of the very few things that made working on Earth at all worthwhile—or tolerable, at the very least. There were so many things to hate, to resent, to mutter about, and just as many receptive mortal receptacles to spread his misery to. Someone had to do it. Too many demons these days took no pride in their work anymore. They slunk about all embarrassed-like, tempting here and there to keep the guys Down Below off their tails, but otherwise ignoring their purpose almost entirely. And anyway half the times the so-called "temptations" consisted of little more than gluing coins to the sidewalk and sniggering at people who tried to pick them up. Really. How low could a demon sink? Sometimes, Hastur felt he was the only one who bothered to stop and trample the roses anymore.

Ligur had always been up for a little floral destruction. Were he capable of it, and if Ligur hadn't been such an insufferable berk before his holy-water bath, Hastur might almost have missed him. Admittedly, it wasn't likely, but it was very nearly possible.

Hastur, as it has been stated, disliked many things, but there was a particularly sharp thorn in his side for crowds. Not the crowds of anguished souls in Hell, of course—they were always good for a laugh—but crowds of happy mortals. They involved far too much laughter, which set his teeth on edge, and usually got much closer than he was comfortable with. He especially loathed crowds of cheerful humans in brightly-lit places.

So of course the moment he skulked through the door of the restaurant she'd chosen as the rendezvous point, his already unpleasant face settled into a deep scowl, folding up into itself until it was more shadow than actual expression. It was a tacky, family-oriented place, the sort with jerseys and posters and instruments and wagons and things of the sort nailed to the wall in accordance with a decorating scheme that Hastur suspected had its origins on his end. It looked as though someone had simply upturned an attic and then decided to display their findings. The whole place reeked of cheeriness and plastic.

And as if that weren't enough, there were families. With _children. _

Hastur shouldered past the smiling hostess and headed for a booth in the far corner. Cries of surprise and disgust filled the air as patrons began to realize that their food was spoiled and smeared with mold, that their drinks had upset themselves, that _oh my god is that a cockroach in my potatoes?_

Hastur's frown deepened as he settled into his seat across from a pretty, dark-eyed young woman in a jumper the color of fig leaves.

"Hello, Hastur," she greeted him sweetly, a smile spreading across her lips. It was an incredibly alluring smile, though wasted completely on the incensed demon.

"Why'd you ask me to meet you here?" Hastur ground his teeth and swallowed a taste like sewage.

"What do you mean? I like it. It's so…friendly." The young woman looked innocently at Hastur with an expression that said, 'because I knew you'd hate it and I love to watch you squirm.'

She had a way of doing that, Hastur had noticed. She'd say something kind with her mouth and tell you the truth with her eyes. Hastur never knew which one to respond to, so he usually kept his mouth shut. Humans never seemed to notice.

"She's not with you," noted the woman with placid disappointment, lifting a bit of apple-and-walnut salad to her mouth.

"No," rasped Hastur.

The woman waited. When Hastur spoke no further, she said, "And why is that? Was she not exactly where I told you she'd be?"

"She was," said Hastur.

"And yet she's not with you now," said the young woman. Her eyes looked as though they could set Hastur on fire.

"There were…complications," Hastur ground out.

The woman made a _tsk _sound with her tongue. "What sort of complications, exactly? I'm expecting quite an exciting story from you, now." She pointed her fork at him in a manner much more threatening than cutlery had any right to be.

Hastur cleared his throat, which was quickly proving itself to be a startlingly difficult procedure.

"Hastur," the woman drawled. Her voice was like a sadistic schoolteacher, at once patient and condescending, understanding and cruel. "Don't keep me waiting."

"Unavoidable complications," complied Hastur grudgingly. "Two of them."

The woman raised a meticulously groomed eyebrow. "Oh? And am I to assume that these complications have names?"

Hastur snatched a look at the woman's face. She had no idea what was coming next. Good. Taking her by surprise with this might be the best thing that'd happened to Hastur in weeks.

"They do, as a matter of fact," he said gruffly, grinning a little to himself. "Reckon one of them might be familiar to you, even."

The woman looked disturbed by Hastur's sudden shift in mood. "Oh?" she said carefully.

"Calls himself Crowley now," said Hastur, grinning a little more.

The woman drew away from Hastur, turning her face to hide the expression of worried skepticism that had crept onto it.

"And why might he be familiar to me?" she asked. "I don't recognize that name."

"You wouldn't," replied Hastur. "Doubt you'd recognize much about him at all these days, really."

"Why not?" The young woman narrowed her eyes, obviously and desperately curious.

"He's not a serpent anymore, for one thing," said Hastur. His grin spread a little too far across to come across as perfectly human.

Eve's fork snapped in half in her hand.

…

The stereo in Crowley's flat crackled to life.

WE HAVE A PROBLEM, CROWLEY, said the stereo.

Crowley startled, turning toward the stereo with a grimace. "What is it, lord?" He asked, trying to sound calm and failing miserably. This was just about the last thing he needed right now.

THE GARDEN, CROWLEY. HASTUR WAS SUPPOSED TO FETCH HER. BUT HE DOESN'T HAVE HER. DO YOU KNOW WHY THAT IS?

"Incompetence?" offered Crowley weakly.

WE'VE HEARD THINGS, CROWLEY. THINGS THAT CALL YOUR LOYALTY INTO QUESTION.

"Yeah?" said Crowley nervously.

…

"What was that _creature _doing with the Garden?" Eve was livid.

"How am I supposed to know?" replied Hastur, almost dismissively.

"Isn't he with you people?" Eve did preferred not to associate herself with the other inhabitants of Hell.

"Technically," said Hastur. "He's gone traitor, though, if you ask me. Going round with an angel now." There was little doubt in Hastur's naturally mistrustful mind that the hassled-looking entity had been an accomplice in Crowley's duplicity, though what the two hoped to gain—and how they could stand to be in one another's presence for long periods of time—eluded him completely.

"What angel?" asked Eve suspiciously.

Hastur scrunched his face in thought. He'd included the angel in his report and received instructions on how to proceed, but the name of the angel wasn't something he'd exactly thought to remember.

"Beings with an A or something. Same bugger what guarded the Eastern Gate. What does it matter?"

A flash of an emotion Hastur didn't recognize crossed Eve's face. She leaned forward.

"Aziraphale?" she breathed.

"Yeah, I reckon that was it." Hastur regarded her with narrowed eyes. "Know him too, do you?"

Eve smiled wistfully. "We've met."

Aziraphale. Now there was a name Eve had resigned herself never to hear again. It had been roughly six thousand years since she'd last heard it, hadn't it? Give or take a decade or two. She pressed her fingers against her mouth to stifle a sigh. In spite of all the pleasant things Hell had managed to wring out of her, the memory of Aziraphale blazed against the faint shadows left behind like a flaming sword against the falling darkness of the first thunderstorm. He had been the anchor that had kept her from slipping into that darkness altogether through the long, long years of guilt and anger and pain. Tall, broad, armored and winged, and clutching his sword like a nervous schoolboy with a bouquet of flowers—he had been awe-inspiring, beautiful, and kind.

No one had been kind to Eve since.

The more time Eve spent on Earth, the more it ate away at her. She had been driven out of Paradise for being curious, for being less than absolutely perfect, had been rejected and forsaken by the one who had _made _her that way. By His own rules, worse punishment than she had received should be doled out on a regular basis for what she saw around her all the time—and yet nothing ever happened. Where was the wrathful God of the Old Testament with his fire and brimstone when men could take children off the streets, could kill their families with their bare hands, could lie, and cheat, and steal and succeed and never get caught? Who punished them? In comparison to the evils that ran the world now, was what she had done really so bad?

Adam had certainly thought so. Anyone who wondered at her decision to stay put where she was after that whole Harrowing business hadn't had to spend the years after Paradise constantly being given that fleeting, calculating look whenever Adam hadn't thought she could see him, like he was wondering just how difficult it would be to leave Eve somewhere and not come back for her. They'd never had a husband distrust everything they'd ever given him to eat again to the point that he finally took the sword—_Aziraphale's _sword—and went out and put it through one of the animals they had named together and eaten that instead. They had not been the first woman to give birth, alone in the dark, bleeding, feeling as though she were being torn apart and not knowing why or whether it would ever stop. They had not lost Eden.

What was Hell to that?

Much to her horror, Eve had learned since resurfacing that mankind had come to blame her for its own pesky inclinations towards sin—called it Original Sin, creative lot—which was frankly ridiculous. As though they needed any help in the matter. That humans wanted to sin wasn't anybody's fault, it simply came with free will. But leave it to humans to find someone to blame. They always did. They always had.

And it wasn't as bad as it could have been. She'd gotten off easier than Lilith, for one thing. Poor dear. The girl wasn't so bad once you got to know her, and certainly she'd never killed anyone. Eve had never met a shyer, more nervous wreck of a person in all her life—or preceding afterlife.

But Aziraphale…Aziraphale had cared. He had risked the strict castigation of the same wrathful Creator in order to give her and Adam a fighting chance. He had _wanted _them to succeed, to live, to not let the sun go down on them, when all other factors seemed to conspire against them.

What would he be doing chumming it up with the snake?

Eve shook her head, half in denial of what Hastur was saying, half in an attempt to stop it spinning.

"You must be mistaken," she insisted finally. "There's no way Aziraphale would associate with _your _kind. Especially not with this Crowley of yours." She coughed up the demon's name like an owl regurgitating the undigestable bits of bones and hair from its last meal.

"What makes you so sure?" asked Hastur. There was an element of genuine curiosity to his question that was rather lost on Eve. She glared back at him like she was considering the destructive capability of her fork in his neck.

"Time changes people," he said, unfazed. "Changed you."

At this, Eve sprang from angry portrait back into living woman. "Hell changed me," she snapped.

"Don't blame us. You were already a bitch when you got down there."

Eve lunged across the table snarling like a hungry tiger, and seized Hastur by the collar. She sneered.

"I do blame you. I blame you entirely. If it wasn't for you, I would never have lost Eden in the first place!"

Hastur removed Eve's shaking hands from his shirt and pushed them unceremoniously away. "I didn't do nothing to you. Don't get cross at me. It's Crowley you hate," he reminded her. "And I dunt like him any more than you do."

Eve paused at this comment, suddenly still, her face smooth and neutral save for a slight furrowing of her forehead.

"Oh?" She leaned in again, this time conspiratorially and slow. A venomous smile slithered onto her lips, and she arched an eyebrow worryingly. "Is that so?"

Unsure of what to say, Hastur grunted.

Eve pulled away, tossing her glossy hair like she was in a shampoo advert. "And why, pray tell, don't you like him?"

Hastur turned to glower at the frightened young waitress approaching their table, order pad clutched to her chest with trembling hands.

"What?" he barked.

The girl squeaked. "I, um, can I…your order, sir?"

Eve reached toward the waitress with a sign of friendship. "He's all set, sweetheart. Don't let my friend frighten you. He's a teddy bear, really, he just has a bit of a gruff exterior. I'll take another glass of water, and I hope you'll remember the lemon this time?"

Smiling broadly, she ushered the girl away and returned her attention to her salad.

"You won't be needing that, will you?" she asked Hastur, indicating his fork with a slender hand. She didn't wait for him to answer before plucking it off the table. "Thanks so much. Now, where were we?"

"A teddy bear?" said Hastur.

Eve blinked at him for a moment, food halfway to her mouth, jaw slack. Then she laughed. "Did that really bother you? I was only trying to comfort the girl; you frightened her, you know." She shrugged, plucked a slice of apple out of her salad and bit into it with relish. "You really should try to blend in a bit more. It makes me uncomfortable how much you stick out. Don't look at me like that, you _growled _at her, I had to say _something. _Anyway, you're letting petty grievances interfere with business. It's very unprofessional of you."

Business? What did Eve know about business? She'd been back on Earth a grand total of six days. Not even a week, and she was already poncing about like she'd never left the place. True, she had adjusted to the drastic shift with a rather alarming lack of difficulty, but Hastur still felt he was the more experienced of the two of them, and was, therefore, the superior. She couldn't be trusted not to muck everything up—after all, she'd done herself a right turn her first time around, hadn't she? How could Hastur be expected to give her a second shot at doing anything on her own? That was asking a lot of a saint, much rather a Duke of Hell.

"Hmph," said Hastur.

"Come on," coaxed Eve. "I know I'm not the first person you would choose to work with, but here we are. Let's try to get along, hm? For both our sakes. We're not here on holiday." Her words might have been more placating had it not been for the sugary, condescending tone in which she spoke them.

"I know that," said Hastur.

Eve acknowledged him with a little wave of her hand. "I'm sure I need not remind you that we have a common goal in this, then. And a common enemy."

"What's that?" Hastur regarded her doubtfully.

"Crowley, of course," said Eve in a near-whisper. "Think about it for a moment."

Hastur frowned. "What about him?"

"Neither of us like him, true?" Eve was back to the scheming, dangerous beauty Hastur had taken care to edge around in Hell. "I have reason to hate him for the trick that lost me Paradise and you…" she trailed off, her silence heated with the hum of fierce thought. "You…"

The moment she hit upon something, the transformation in her face was almost humorous. Her eyes grew very wide and round, then shrank to mirthful slits as if to compensate for the birth of a wicked, knowing smile.

"Armageddon." She said it so softly Hastur felt more than heard it. Then she gave a whoop of laughter at Hastur's refusal to look at her and cried, "Of course! That's what he did to you!" Another small, triumphant laugh. "Oh, how _embarrassing _that must have been for you. I had forgotten all about it."

She hadn't paid much attention to it while it was happening, either.

Hastur scowled, one lip quirked in irritation.

"This is wonderful!" stated Eve, clasping her hands together. "He averted the Apocalypse!"

"How's that wonderful?" snapped Hastur.

Eve tilted her head and smiled at him the way one might smile at a particularly difficult child who will not stop asking 'why' to everything.

"This must mean your people share our hatred for him, surely. So who's to care if we take care of him as well?" She tapped a tooth with her long-nailed index finger and smiled like a lion in the grass.

"No," said Hastur shortly. "We can't."

"And why not? Don't tell me you've decided to develop a _conscience, _Hastur. That would be most ill-advised in your line of work." Eve crossed her arms at her chest and stared at Hastur expectantly.

"It's not me that would stop us," said Hastur vehemently. "You're wrong about the Authorities Below."

"…I am?" asked Eve incredulously.

"Yes. The guy's in commendations up to his bloody ears, and everyone's pretending the Apocalypse never happened."

"It didn't," Eve couldn't help but point out sweetly.

Hastur settled into a displeased glower.

"Oh, don't be angry, it was only a little jest," said Eve soothingly. "I have a little proposition for you. I think it could make both of us happy."

Hastur appeared less than convinced, but if there was one thing Eve was good at, it was twisting a situation to fit her needs. It was a skill that came in handy when the whole world was, more or less, quite literally against you.

"What if we could prove that Crowley is a traitor? That he's working with Aziraphale? What if we could show, beyond the shadow of a doubt, the necessity of putting him out of commission?"

"I dunt know what you're getting at," said Hastur sourly. "And I certainly dunt trust you enough to let it go."

Eve's smile widened, and she spread her hands amiably. "I can explain." When Hastur failed to look anything but dubious, she wagged a finger at him and cooed, "Now, now, nobody likes a Doubting Thomas."

…

ARE YOU CERTAIN? The stereo sounded unsure.

"Positive, lord," said Crowley. "She's right here." He gestured wildly to Aziraphale, who rushed to bring Eden downstairs.

HAVE HER SAY SOMETHING, came the predictable order.

"Er, just a moment," requested Crowley.

Aziraphale reappeared from the bedroom, one arm around a very puzzled Eden. He held a finger to his lips as she raised an eyebrow at him.

"Wha—?" she began.

CROWLEY?

Eden gave a startled shriek and jumped away from the stereo, nearly knocking Aziraphale off his feet.

WAS THAT HER?

"Wasn't me, lord." Crowley's voice sounded thin.

OH. There was a pause. HELLO, EDEN.

Eden raised her eyebrows at Crowley, who shrugged.

SHE ISN'T ANSWERING.

"I think you frightened her, lord."

DID I? HM. YOU KNOW THE REPRESENTATIVES OF HELL DO NOT APOLOGIZE, CROWLEY. AS A RULE.

"I know, lord."

BUT, IN THIS CASE, I FEEL IT MAY BE EXCUSABLE. Another stretch of uncertain silence. I…AM SORRY IF I FRIGHTENED YOU, EDEN.

Aziraphale's mouth fell open in shock.

"I," said Eden quietly. "It was nothing. No problem. I forgive you."

WELL, said the stereo. NOW THAT'S CLEARED UP. YOUR LOYALTY HAS BEEN ASCERTAINED, CROWLEY. WE WILL CONTACT HASTUR ABOUT THIS MATTER IMMEDIATELY. There came a small clicking noise, and the dials on the stereo blinked out.

Crowley, Aziraphale, and Eden stood staring at the quiet appliance, one heavy with relief, one still slack-jawed in amazement, one churning in curiosity.

"Was that Dagon?" asked the last

"Yes," replied Crowley.

"Cor," said Eden "How'd he know it was really me talking?"

"Well," began Crowley authoritatively. He stopped. "Uh…" A crease appeared along his brow. "I don't know," he admitted finally.

"Fair enough," conceded Eden. Noting Aziraphale's expression, she asked, "Are you all right, Aziraphale?"

"Fine, dear," said Aziraphale, patting her arm distractedly. "Now, why don't you pop upstairs and get yourself dressed."

Eden gave him a fond but bemused smile and began to protest. Then she noted Crowley's raised eyebrows, Aziraphale's responding wave. Crowley tilted his head, Aziraphale shook his. With a sigh, Eden complied and went back upstairs.

Crowley grinned. "That's a bullet dodged," he said.

"That it is, dear boy," agreed Aziraphale.

Eden closed the bedroom door behind her, crossing the room to pry Nimbus from the corner into which he had pressed himself, hissing, the moment the stereo—though it was far from with earshot—had turned itself on in Crowley's lounge. The cat relaxed at her touch and melted into her arms like a purring pool of furry liquid.

Eden found the spot behind his ears and kneaded it thoughtfully. The purring grew louder. She chuckled and raised Nimbus to meet her gaze.

"When d'you think I should remind them I haven't got anything to wear?" she asked him.

"Mrrrrrrr," purred Nimbus.

Eden nodded. "You're probably right," she said, laughing.

…

_"Look," he glances sideways distractedly. "If you come back there's going to be an almighty row, but you might be needing this sword, so here it is."_

_Adam takes the blade reverently, carefully wrapping both hands around the hilt. Eve looks up at the angel with wonder in her eyes. She begins to speak._

_"Don't bother to thank me," says the angel. "Just do everyone a big favor and don't let the sun go down on you here."_

_Eve nods. Adam touches her arm and glances towards the woods in the distance, as though he's actually eager to get moving. Like the thought of leaving Eden, of never being able to return, of walking away from the only place they've ever known into something wild and dark and uncertain doesn't make it hard for him to breathe. Doesn't tear at his stomach and scratch at the back of his eyes and leave his heart frozen. She sneers and turns back to the angel._

_"I really feel I ought to thank you," she insists._

_The angel's eyes dart around again. He frowns. "Ah, no, really, it's not necessary. Just go on. Please."_

_"Can I at least know your name?" requests Eve. "Please, let me know who I owe my life to."_

_She knows this isn't allowed—the asking or the answer—but the angel says, "Er. It's Aziraphale," and proceeds to wave her away. Repeating the name to herself, clutching it like a treasure to her chest, she hurries after Adam, following the point of light glinting amidst the heavy darkness. When she looks back, Aziraphale is gone._

_

* * *

_Questions? Comments? Speak to me! :D_  
_


	8. Trousers and Fingernails

Ladies and Gents, may I present the new and improved Chapter Eight! Sort of. Well it's a bit longer, at any rate.

As of 25th of May, 2010, I've more or less gone through the whole story and edited it very heavily, since it's been two years since I started it, and I like to think I've improved maybe a little since then. At any rate, if you've read this story before, let me first re-iterate that I love you and you are a patient, patient soul full of patience and beauty for putting up with me and my hiatus. I would also like to add that you may or may not want to re-read it-it's entirely up to you, of course, but I think it would be worth it. If you have never read this before, welcome! I hope you have enjoyed it so far and continue to do so. Now to reviews! Some of these are going pretty far back. :O Gosh, I'm such a slacker.

**christine marie-**I'm glad you like the story! I address the issue of Hastur and the holy water a bit in this chapter, but if you still have any questions, feel free to ask!

**The Mad Maiden, Sivaroobini Lupin-Black, Coin Operated Boy, Heta Noitio, Ririi, m-erechyn, Ikchen, Moonsign, anon, Enjy-Glomper, OceanFae, Ketsi-aiita-n**, and **forgetmeknots**-I LOVE YOU ALL. I wish I had more time to respond to all of your reviews individually, but I would like you to know that I adore you and am near to speechless at your immensely kind words. And as for that matter of slash, which was mentioned quite a few times, I promise it isn't intentional, but as I do ship Crowley and Aziraphale, I cannot deny that it slips in sometimes. Sometimes it is more obvious than at others. XD

**Ladymouse2**- Thank you for reminding that this story existed! Your review gave me the kick in the pants I needed to get it edited and added to, and I am eternally grateful. I hope you continue to enjoy it.

* * *

Eden picked at a loose thread on the trousers she wore. They weren't meant for someone much older and less female, and were, as a consequence, much too large, but they covered her, and they weren't her nightgown. That was the important thing.

She caught Crowley's eye in the rear-view mirror and smiled sheepishly. Of course he had offered to manifest her something to wear the moment she'd gotten around to reminding him and Aziraphale that she needed it, but Eden had balked somewhat at the idea. It was all well and good for Crowley to go about his business clad essentially in his own will—it suited him, she thought—but Eden could never do it herself. The idea of a shirt that had never known life as a hopeful tuft of cotton or even a row of gleaming synthetic fibers struck her as vaguely unprofessional. And, though she trusted Crowley's ability to fulfill his offer unreservedly, a deep, slightly more cynical part of her full acknowledged that she'd spend the day unable to meet the eyes of passing strangers, half-sick in anticipation of some grand vanishing act that would leave her nude and mortified in public.

So Crowley had gone hunting, searching the flat thoroughly for a scrap of something he'd actually purchased.

"I reckon I must've done it at some point," he'd mused, less convincingly than Eden would have liked. She settled despondently onto the sleek white sofa with Nimbus as Crowley traipsed upstairs, an expression of thoughtful indifference on his face.

When he'd returned, it was with a victorious, if slightly puzzled grin and a pair of tan-colored trousers, thinned and faded with wear and washing. He handed them to Eden with a shrug..

"They'll be a bit big," he said. "But they're all I could find. Couldn't tell you where they came from, but they're certainly not my doing." Crowley would be the first to admit that he'd subjected himself to some fairly strange trends in human fashion—and he would always maintain that he'd worn cravats with impeccable and masculine flair—but not even he could recall when plain, tasteful, unassuming trousers had been in vogue.

Eden held them out in front of herself and examined them, head tilted.

"These are yours?"

"Er, maybe?" said Crowley.

Aziraphale, meanwhile, had been staring at the object in Eden's hand with something akin to horror. He leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowed, then pulled back slowly as if expecting the picture before him to change like a page from a book of optical illusions. A murmur of, "Oh, dear…but it couldn't…could it? No, no…" escaped from between barely parted lips. Eden lowered the trousers and raised an eyebrow in his direction.

"Is something wrong?"

Aziraphale glanced at her distractedly. "No, there's nothing wrong, only…well, I'm _sure _those are mine." At the look on Eden's face, he blushed and added quickly, "I haven't seen them for years. I was wondering where they'd gone off to. I can't imagine how they ended up here…"

Eden's eyes went from Aziraphale to Crowley, then back to Aziraphale, but the only sound she made was a clipped, disbelieving laugh. This had to be a joke. Were they taking the piss with her? Aziraphale looked mortified, which immediately made Eden feel guilty. Her smile grew apologetic.

"Um, do you mind if I wear them?" she asked, holding out the trousers like a peace offering.

"Of course," Aziraphale assured her dismissively. He frowned. "I doubt I'd still fit into them anymore, anyway." A hand went subconsciously to the air in front of his midsection, which was, admittedly, a tad soft. The angel had developed quite a sweet tooth over the years.

Eden focused her attention on the trousers in her lap, allowing them alone to see the fondness that radiated from her at this prime example of Aziraphale's rather un-angelic self-consciousness, a trait she had always found particularly endearing. This wasn't, of course, to say that his statement wasn't true; though the trousers would undoubtedly refuse to stay anywhere but around her ankles under normal circumstances, Eden could see that they would be a tight fit for Aziraphale.

As if reading her mind, Crowley chuckled, "I trust you'll at least allow me to give you a belt?"

Eden shot him a look of faux apprehension. "And actually keep my pants up? I dunno. The other kids might make fun of me."

Crowley made a gesture like snapping a whip, and handed Eden the sleek black belt that now dangled from his hand. "Call me old-fashioned," he said with a shrug. Eden accepted it gratefully.

"Thanks," she said. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I do believe I may finally be able to get dressed."

Once upstairs, Eden slipped into the trousers and tucked her nightgown into the waistband—it would make a passable shirt, provided no one looked too closely. Hopefully it would be possible to get to a clothing store soon. She would only need an outfit or two, something basic and comfortable. Eden had never placed much importance on fashion. Considering that she was more often than not outside in the dirt tending her plants…_before, _it had hardly seemed practical. Besides, she'd never really seen the point of clothing that bore the sole purpose of being stood around in. if you couldn't live in something—run in it, dance in it, get it a little dirty—then what was the point? No, she would need a pair of denims, two at the very most, and a couple of tops. It would be enough for her to know that she was covered no matter what, and Crowley was free to take care of whatever other need he saw.

The bedroom door closed behind Eden with a click, at which point Aziraphale turned to Crowley with a puzzled expression. He opened his mouth, but Crowley cut him off before he could speak.

"I have no idea. I can't be held responsible for everyone who flings their trousers about my flat forgets about them, you know."

"Quite," muttered Aziraphale, shaking his head slightly, but smiling nonetheless.

…

Eve picked disinterestedly at her fingernails, watching them with a sort of bored, unfocused expression as Hastur tried not to be conspicuous behind her. He cleared his throat—it sounded painful—and she sent him a disdainful look.

"Is there a _problem_?" The way her voice sharpened on the last word of her question suggested strongly that Hastur's answer should be something very similar to "no, ma'am, there is absolutely nothing wrong; so sorry to disturb your concentration by making repulsive and highly distracting sounds."

Hastur only grumbled low in the back of his throat, holding his own admirably against Eve's withering glare. She watched, revolted, as he made a wet, snarling, gurgling sound like gravel and gasoline sucked through a vacuum hose and hacked what resembled a small handful of mashed slugs into a nearby planter.

Eve winced. "That's _disgusting_," she sneered, unable to conceal the way her voice faltered slightly. She swallowed, recovered her composure. "Is that _normal _for you demons?" she persisted, gesturing vaguely towards the planter with one hand before crossing her arms disapprovingly.

Hastur's perpetual frown deepened. She knew perfectly well that it wasn't.

"Wouldn't know," he ground out. "Don't normally have holy water forced down my throat."

Eve seemed to give this a momentary thought, as if she hadn't remembered this fact. "Ah, yes, you mentioned something about that before, didn't you?" She barely managed to sound interested, her eyes drifting idly back to her nails.

Hastur didn't expect her to ask about the context of his injury, and she didn't. Never mind that it was her precious _Garden's _fault that speaking felt like swallowing bits of razor wire and rubbing alcohol. She would sacrifice Hastur's speaking comfort a thousand times over if it helped _Eden_ get rid of a splinter.

"You have to admit there's something awfully _odd _about it," said Eve after a moment, sounding thoughtful and sinister.

"D'you mean?" asked Hastur gruffly.

"The holy water," said Eve. "It ought to have killed you, wouldn't you think?"

Oh, she would've loved that, thought Hastur dourly.

"I mean," persisted Eve. "Your chances of surviving something like that couldn't be very good. It must've done a good deal of damage, at the very least…" She trailed off, as though waiting for a prompted response.

Hastur held his ground. He knew what Eve wanted to hear, wanted to get him admit: that it hadn't been a lot of water, but it would get the job done; that his entire existence boiled down to a matter of time; that every time he hacked up a handful of sludge, he was spitting out a mass of his own insides, carefully sheared away from its rightful place by the sizzling blade of that one, careful stream of holy water fired from an ordinary plastic plant mister.

He shrugged. "Guess so."

"Hm." Eve pursed her lips slightly and narrowed her eyes. She cast a brief glance in the direction of the planter that Hastur had spit into, but otherwise let the subject drop. She'd spent enough time with Hastur in the past few days—unfortunately—to know that her words had inflicted the intended impact, even if the demon didn't show it outright.

An expression crossed Hastur's face—had it been anyone else, Eve would've labeled it thoughtful. He made a sound like a spoon caught in a garbage disposal and coughed up another gobbet of viscous brown sludge that splattered to the floor dangerously close to Eve's shiny and expensive-looking pumps. She looked down, then up again at Hastur. Her expression was murderous.

Hastur looked back evenly. "Oops," he said.

* * *

Give me your tired, your poor, your huddles masses yearning to breath free. Also you questions, comments, critiques or complaints.


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